LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 


THE 
WHITEHEADED  BOY 

A  COMEDY  IN  TUREE  ACTS 


BY 

LENNOX   ROBINSON 

WITH    AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 

ERNEST  BOYD 


G.  r.  I'l'TNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  VOUK  AND  LONDON 

Cbe    Isuichcrbochcr    press 

ion 


Copyright,  192 1 

by 
Lennox  Robinson 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


/\^ 


To 
AUNT  ELLEN" 


INTRODUCTION 

A  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  Irish  Theatre 
was  closed  in  1907,  when  The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World  was  produced,  bringing  in  its 
train  notoriety,  fame  and  a  relative  degree  of 
popular  success.  The  recognition  of  the  genius 
of  J.  M.  Synge  was  the  culminating  point  in 
the  movement  for  the  creation  of  a  national 
folk-drama  which  he  had  initiated  in  the 
company  of  Lady  Gregory,  Padraic  Colum  and 
William  Boyle.  These  were  the  pioneers  of 
the  peasant  play  and  each  contributed  a  definite 
element  to  that  type  of  drama,  marking  the  lim- 
itations within  which  it  was  to  develop.  As  a 
result  of  the  enhanced  prestige  of  the  Theatre 
and  of  the  extension  of  its  influence,  a  great 
number  of  new  playwrights  came  forward, 
including  several  whose  names  were  to  attain 
a  prominence  which  has  obscured  the  prior 
claims  of  their  predecessors,  the  dramatists, 
who  laid  the  foundations  of  the  success  enjoyed 
by  the  Abbey  Theatre  after  the  death  of  Synge 
in  1909.  A  convention  had  been  created  and 
it  was  not  long  before  a  host  of  peasant  mclo- 
dramatists  arose  to  fulfil  the  demand  for  such 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

plays.  What  was  obvious  in  the  verbal  exuber- 
ance of  Synge,  in  the  profound  realism  of 
Padraic  Colum,  in  the  drollery  of  Lady 
Gregory,  could  be  imitated,  and  popular  folk- 
drama  came  to  be  manufactured  according  to 
a  formula. 

One  of  the  young  men  who  at  that  time 
was  influenced  by  seeing  the  performances  of 
the  Irish  Players  was  the  author  of  The  White- 
headed  Boy.  Mr.  Lennox  Robinson  is  the  son 
of  a  clergyman  and  was  born  in  Cork  in  1886. 
He  was  one  of  a  group  of  writers  in  that  city 
who  have  in  recent  years  given  to  Irish  litera- 
ture some  of  its  best  work.  His  own  plays 
and  the  novels  of  Mr.  Daniel  Corkery  have 
already  been  acclaimed  beyond  the  borders  of 
Ireland.  But  back  in  the  days  of  the  Synge 
controversies  the  theatre  was  the  chief  preoc- 
cupation of  that  circle  to  which  the  Abbey 
Theatre  now  owes  many  of  the  most  successful 
and  some  of  the  best,  plays  in  its  repertory; 
among  others,  BirthrigJit,  by  T.  C.  Murray, 
and  The  Yellow  Bittern,  by  Daniel  Corkery. 
They  had  founded  a  local  organization  for  the 
production  of  their  work  and  one,  at  least,  of 
Mr.  Robinson's  'prentice  efforts  was  staged 
there,  but  has  never  been  published  or  otherwise 
acknowledged  by  him.  It  is  called  The  Lesson 
of  Life  and  the  very  title  suggests  reasons  for 
the  author's  discretion.  Indeed,  he  himself  has 
been  the  sharpest  critic  of  his  early  writings, 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

and  is  not  disposed  to  take  very  seriously  even 
the  first  of  his  plays  to  be  accepted  by  the 
Abbey  Theatre.  In  the  order  of  their  produc- 
tion these  were  The  Clancy  Name  (1908),  The 
Cross  Roads  (1909)  and  Ha rz'est  (1910). 

It  is  doubtless  unkind  to  dwell  upon  the  early 
experiments  of  a  writer  who  more  or  less  dis- 
owns them,  but  apart  from  the  perfectly  legiti- 
mate interest  which  such  things  have  for  the 
critic,  the  remarkable  development  of  Lennox 
Robinson's  gift  for  the  theatre  is  nowhere  more 
effectively  shown  than  in  the  contrast  between 
those  three  plays  and  the  maturer  work  which 
has  been  crowned  with  the  great  and  deserved 
success  of  The  IVhiteheadcd  Boy.  In  the  little 
one-act  play,  The  Clancy  Name,  merits  are  dis- 
cernible which  are  not  so  apparent  in  either  of 
the  more  ambitious  pieces  which  followed  it. 
The  conflict  arises  between  a  mother,  whose 
pride  of  race  is  the  passion  of  her  life,  and  her 
son,  whose  sense  of  duty  compels  him  to  con- 
fess that  he  is  guilty  of  a  crime  to  the  author- 
ities who  do  not  suspect  him.  She  tries  to 
prevent  him  from  bringing  disgrace  on  the 
family  name,  but  the  young  man  resists  the 
appeal  and  goes  off  to  give  himself  up.  By  the 
device  of  having  him  killed  while  trying  to 
rescue  a  child  from  being  trami)led  by  a  run- 
away horse,  the  dramatist  .solves  too  easily  the 
pn;bleni  which  he  had  presented  with  convinc- 
ing force. 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Cross  Roads,  however,  was  such  a 
denial  of  all  coherence  and  probability  that  the 
question  of  the  element  of  inevitability, 
essential  to  tragedy,  simply  did  not  arise. 
Having  postulated  a  loveless  marriage  between 
an  ambitious,  educated  country  girl  and  an 
impossibly  brutal  farmer,  the  author  asks  us 
to  believe  that  this  puts  a  curse  upon  the  farm. 
The  poultry  refuse  to  lay  eggs,  the  cattle  die, 
even  the  fertilizer  goes  on  strike,  and  we  are 
shown  a  ghastly  picture  of  the  physical  and 
moral  deterioration  of  the  household,  termin- 
ating with  the  exit  of  the  husband,  who 
announces  that  he  is  "going  down  the  road  for 
a  sup  of  drink"  and  "God  help  you  when  I 
come  back."  Not  even  the  fine  acting  of  Miss 
Sara  AUgood  could  save  this  from  being  the 
reductio  ad  ahsiirdum  of  the  peasant  melo- 
drama. Almost  the  same  can  be  said  of 
Harvest,  except  that  the  theme  itself  is  in- 
herently sound,  and  need  not  have  degenerated 
into  the  banalities  of  Brieux's  Blanchette,  with 
its  commonplace  variant  of  the  girl  who  took 
the  wrong  turning.  Mr.  Robinson's  subject 
is  that  of  the  problems  raised  by  the  extension 
of  educational  facilities  to  people  whose 
peculiar  needs  and  opportunities  are  not  con- 
sidered by  those  who  draw  up  the  syllabus. 
The  application  of  this  theme  to  Irish  condi- 
tions would  have  provided  excellent  material 
for   a   dramatist   knowing   rural    Ireland,   but 

X 


INTRODUCTION 

here  the  subject  is  frittered  away  into  a  lurid 
tale  of  seduction,  in  which  the  heroine  dis- 
courses in  the  traditional  manner  of  melodrama. 
Miss  Maire  O'Neill's  art  could  not  conceal  the 
essential  unreality  of  the  words  she  spoke  so 
beautifully.  But  these  three  plays  of  his  nonage 
were  merely  the  experiments  of  a  dramatist 
who  was  learning  his  craft,  and  who  differs, 
in  this  respect,  from  some  of  his  contempor- 
aries who  have  had  only  one  play  to  give  to  the 
Irish  Theatre,  and  whose  reputations  rest  on 
that  first  play,  apparently  free  from  all  critical 
scrutiny.  Lennox  Robinson's  work  is  a  record 
of  progress,  whose  turning  point  was  in  191 2, 
when  his  Patriots  was  produced. 

The  subject  of  that  drama  is  one  which,  in 
the  retrospect  of  recent  tragic  years  in  Ireland, 
takes  on  a  peculiar  interest,  for  it  was  nothing 
less  than  a  dramatisation  of  the  crisis  in  Irish 
political  thought  whose  ultimate  expression  is 
the  Sinn  Fein  movement  of  to-day.  The 
central  figure  of  Patriots  is  an  old  rebel  who 
comes  back  after  years  of  imprisonment  to  find 
that  other  men  and  other  methods  are  in  favor 
with  those  who  control  the  nationalist  fight. 
In  James  Nugent's  day  physical  force  was  the 
weapon,  but  the  new  generation  seems  wholly 
absorbed  in  parlirunentary  methods,  and  re- 
gards his  insurrectifjnary  faith  as  merely  an 
obsolete  rehc  of  the  romantic  ])crio(l.  Mr. 
Robinson  draws  an  exceedingly   faithful   and 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

vivid  picture  of  the  state  of  Irish  poHtics  at 
that  time,  when  the  ardor  of  revolution  ap- 
peared to  have  died,  and  the  constitutional 
Home  Rule  Party's  authority  and  prestige  were 
supreme.  There  is  a  real  tragedy  in  the  defeat 
and  dismay  of  the  revolutionary  man  of  action 
when  he  is  compelled  to  make  way  for  leaders 
who  are  ignorant  of  all  that  was  the  glory  of 
his  youth,  and  who  can  prove  by  logic  that  his 
methods  are  useless.  In  a  poem  of  poignant 
eloquence,  W.  B.  Yeats  brooded  over  that  same 
mood  in  which  Patriots  was  conceived,  when 
he  wrote : 

Yet  they  were  of  a  different  kind 
The  names  that  stilled  your  childish  play, 
They  have  gone  about  the  world  like  wind, 
But  little  time  they  had  to  pray 
For  whom  the  hangman's  rope  was  spun. 
And  what,  God  help  us,  could  they  save : 
Romantic  Ireland's  dead  and  gone. 
It's  with  O'Leary  in  the  grave. 

The  revolt,  at  that  time  barely  perceptible, 
against  the  prevailing  apathy  of  the  national 
spirit,  flared  up  a  few  years  later  in  the  Sinn 
Fein  insurrection  of  191 6  and  the  complete 
overthrow  of  the  existing  political  order,  whose 
success  was  postulated  by  the  dramatist.  But 
political  prophecy  is  not  an  essential  part  of  a 
good  play. 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

Just  one  year  before  that  Easter  Rising  in 
Dublin,  Mr.  Robinson  returned  to  the  same 
theme,  in  another  of  its  aspects.  The  Dreamers 
is  an  historical  play  which  treats  of  the  last 
chapter  in  the  life  of  Robert  Emmet,  the  ill- 
fated  leader  of  the  abortive  insurrection  which 
was  the  aftermath  of  the  Irish  Rebellion  of 
1798.  The  author's  purpose  is  to  show  this 
tragic  figure  as  the  victim  of  the  shiftlessness 
and  dishonest  futility  of  his  followers.  He  has 
always  been  more  fortunate  than  Synge  when 
he  has  drawn  pictures  of  the  Irish  character 
which  did  not  coincide  with  the  illusions  of 
sentimental  patriotism.  Just  as  Harvest  es- 
caped even  the  censure  of  the  hypersensitive 
who  hooted  TJie  Playboy  of  tJie  Western 
World,  when  both  were  presented  by  the  Irish 
Players  during  their  visit  to  America  in  191 1, 
so  The  Dreamers  was  well  received  by  aud- 
iences in  which  there  must  have  been  many 
who  were  actually  preparing  to  face  the  same 
death  as  Robert  Emmet  in  191 6. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  that  year  that  TJie 
Whiteheaded  Boy  had  its  premiere  at  the  Abbey 
Theatre,  where  it  at  once  enjoyed  the  success 
and  appreciation  which  were  confirmed  when 
it  was  sul)se(|uently  produced  in  London.  Miss 
Maire  O'Neill,  who,  like  so  many  of  the  orig- 
inal group  of  the  Irish  Players,  had  left  the 
theatre,  returned  for  this  occasion  and  createfl 
the  delightful  part  of  Aunt  Ellen,  one  of  the 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

finest  comedy  characters  on  the  modern  stage. 
Subsequently,  when  she  repeated  the  part  in 
London  she  was  supported  by  Miss  Sara  All- 
good,  Mr.  Arthur  Sinclair  and  others  belong- 
ing to  the  group  of  Players  who  first  made  the 
Irish  Theatre  famous.  The  strength  of  this 
play  undoubtedly  lies  in  the  perfect  combina- 
tion of  form  and  content,  and  the  natural, 
unstrained  drollery  of  speech  combined  with  a 
subject  which  develops  realistically  and  logi- 
cally, yet  whose  humor  is  that  of  cumulative 
effect.  There  is  not  a  deliberately  manufac- 
tured phrase  in  it,  not  one  situation  that  is 
forced  and  stagey,  for  the  whole  comedy  arises 
out  of  the  relations  which  inevitably  establish 
themselves  between  the  characters.  An  attrac- 
tive innovation,  too,  is  the  narrative  form  of 
the  stage  directions,  which  in  the  printed  text 
enable  tlie  reader  to  have  the  illusion  of  listen- 
ing to  a  living  commentary.  After  the 
telegraphic  jargon  of  the  conventional  stage 
direction,  and  the  garrulous  dissertations  of 
Bernard  Shaw,  Mr.  Robinson's  method  is 
pleasing  and  original.  "Kate's  off  to  the 
kitchen  now.  Aren't  I  after  telling  you  she's 
a  great  help  to  her  mother!"  Even  between 
brackets  this  is  preferable  to  "Exit  Kate,  L. 
U.  E.,"  or  words  to  that  effect. 

Before  writing  The  Whiteheadcd  Boy,  Len- 
nox Robinson  had  been  at  work  upon  a  novel 
which  was  in  the  publishers'  hands  in  Dublin 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

when  the  Easter  Rising  took  place,  but  the 
manuscript  was  destroyed  in  the  bombardment 
of  the  city.  When  A  Young  Man  from  the 
SoiitJi  eventually  appeared,  its  singular  appro- 
priateness to  the  occasion  was  apparent,  for 
it  is  a  study  of  the  evolution  of  a  young  Irish- 
man from  loyal  Unionism  to  passionate  nation- 
alism. The  protagonist  is  drawn  from  the 
life  of  a  Southern  Irish  city  like  that  in  which 
the  author's  own  youth  was  passed.  He  comes 
to  Dublin  and  is  gradually  converted  to  a  belief 
in  the  national  identity  of  his  country,  so  that 
Mr.  Robinson  has  many  opportunities  of  des- 
cribing the  various  social  and  intellectual 
groups  which  go  to  the  making  of  that  fascin- 
ating city.  The  publication  of  this  book  coin- 
cided with  that  of  several  novels  purporting 
to  describe  the  condition  of  Ireland  during 
the  years  of  Sinn  Fein,  but  few  have  the  dis- 
passionate reality  of  Mr.  Robinson's.  Although 
a  careful  and  sympathetic  observer,  he  was  not 
a  partisan,  and  neither  indulged  a  malevolent 
spleen  against  the  nationalist  enthusiasts  nor 
romanticised  the  facts.  His  humor  plays 
equally  with  the  naivetes  of  what  is  known  as 
"Irish  Ireland"  and  the  pretentions  of  its 
counterpart  "West  Britain."  Although  after 
the  insurrection,  he  had  actually  to  re-write  the 
story,  he  scrupulously  refrained  from  making 
copy  out  of  the  living  and  the  dead  who  ])ar- 
ticipatcd   in  that  adventure.     The  temptation 

XV 


INTRODUCTION 

to  do  so  was  strong-,  because  it  had  been  done  by 
one  of  his  contemporaries  in  a  novel  which 
was  pubHshed  at  the  same  time,  and  it  would 
have  provided  a  natural  denouement  to  his 
story.  But  in  a  foreword  he  explained  his 
scruples.  "The  combining  of  real  events  with 
imaginary  persons  seemed  likely  to  lead  readers 
to  combine  real  persons  with  imaginary  events 
in  the  book,  a  result  which  would  ofifend  the 
living  and  be  unjust  to  the  dead."  Thus  this 
work,  which  is  an  imaginative  reconstruction 
of  what  others  reported  photographically,  was 
deprived  by  the  author's  delicacy  of  a  powerful 
extraneous  aid  to  popular  success. 

Since  The  Whiteheaded  Boy  Mr.  Robinson 
has  given  The  Lost  Leader  to  the  Irish  Theatre 
and  has  published  another  volume  of  fiction, 
Eight  Short  Stories.  In  the  former  he  makes 
the  daring  experiment  of  writing  a  play  based 
upon  the  popular  Irish  superstition  that  Parnell 
is  not  dead,  but  living  in  obscurity,  and  he 
actually  sets  him  upon  the  stage  to  face  the 
situation  of  an  Ireland  whose  policy  is  Sinn 
Fein.  In  the  latter  work  he  has  collected  a 
sheaf  of  sketches  of  contemporary  life,  with 
some  successful  ventures  into  the  realm  of  the 
supernatural,  which  indicate  that  his  crafts- 
manship in  fiction  is  advancing  as  surely  as  in 
the  theatre.  For  the  rest,  his  life  is  crowded 
with  activities  without  being  eventful,  a  rare 
circumstance  in  Ireland !     He  is  immersed  in 

xvi 


IXTRODUCTION 

the  work  of  building  up  Irish  rural  libraries, 
which  is  being  carried  out  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Carnegie  Trust.  Nevertheless,  he  has 
never  lost  his  active  interest  in  the  Irish 
Theatre. 

In  the  autumn  of  191 8  he  made  an  effort  to 
supplement  the  scope  of  the  Abbey  Theatre 
by  launching,  with  the  cooperation  of  W.  B. 
Yeats,  James  Stephens  and  myself,  the  Dublin 
Drama  League,  which  was  thus  the  first  institu- 
tion of  the  kind  in  the  British  Islands.  Our 
desire  was  to  enable  plays  to  be  produced  of 
the  kind  which  did  not  come  within  the  inten- 
tions of  the  Abbey  Theatre.  During  the  first 
year,  Mr.  Robinson  was  secretary  of  the 
League  and  gave  his  services  as  producer,  with 
the  result  that  a  successful  series  of  Continental 
and  other  plays  were  given  in  Dublin  for  the 
first  time.  Then  he  became,  for  the  second 
time  in  his  career,  manager  of  the  Abbey 
Theatre  and  pulled  it  out  of  the  rut  into  which 
it  had  subsided  after  the  Players  began  to 
disperse  and  their  substitutes  had  not  yet  found 
their  feet.  This  excellent  process  of  rehabilita- 
tion was  unfortunately  checked  during  the  last 
year  by  the  restrictions  of  the  military  curfew 
law,  which  put  even  the  most  prosperous 
commercial  theatres  to  great  losses.  But  since 
the  armistice  hcjpe  is  revived  and  Mr.  Robinson 
is  courageously  announcing  bis  determination 
to  begin  all  over  again,    for  now   it  will  be 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION 

necessary  to  form  a  new  company  of  players 
and  to  train  them  in  the  traditions  of  the 
Theatre.  Of  the  best  that  has  been  created  in 
those  traditions  The  Whitehcaded  Boy  is  an 
example,  and  Lennox  Robinson  deserves  well 
of  all  who  have  a  care  for  the  Irish  Theatre. 
At  the  outset  of  that  brave  undertaking  W- 
B.  Yeats's  aim  was  to  secure  an  audience  for 
"the  half  dozen  minds  who  are  likely  to  be  the 
dramatic  imagination  of  Ireland  for  this  gener- 
ation." The  author  of  this  play  has  obviously 
established  his  claim  to  be  counted  amongst  that 
number. 

Ernest  Boyd. 


New  York,  September,  1921. 


xvui 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 


CHARACTERS 


her  Children. 


Mrs.  Geoghegan. 

George 

Peter 

Kate 

Jane 

Baby 

Denis 

DoNOUGH  Brosnan,  engaged  to  Jane, 

John  Duffy,  Postmaster  and  Chairman,  R.D.C. 

Delia,  his  Daughter,  engaged  to  Denis. 

Hannah,  a  Servant. 

Aunt  Ellen. 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Act  I 

[Mrs.  Geoghegan's  house  is  at  the 
head  of  the  street,  facing  the  priest's 
house;  the  shop  is  at  the  other  end  of  the 
village,  between  Michael  Brosnan's 
public-house  and  Duffy's  yard.  Wil- 
liam Geoghegan  {God  rest  his  soul)  was 
a  very  genteel  man,  and  ivhen  the  wife 
brought  him  the  house  and  the  bit  of  land 
instead  of  getting  a  tenant  for  it  like  a 
sensible  man  {and  the  whole  village  knew 
Clancy,  the  vet.,  was  viad  to  take  it) 
nothing  woidd  do  him  but  live  in  it  him- 
self and  walk  down  to  his  business  every 
day  like  a  iuillionaire.  'Tis  too  high 
notions  poor  William  akvays  had — and 
his  sister,  Ellen,  worse  again  than  him- 
self, craning  after  anything  new  she'd  be 
like  a  cow  through  a  fence — but,  indeed, 
William's  notions  didn't  stand  too  well 
to  him,  and  Ziehen  he  died  he  left  his  fam- 

3 


■  THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

ily — six  of  them,  no  less — in  a  poor 
enough  way.  But  the  eldest  boy — George 
— was  always  terrible  industrious,  and  he 
made  two  of  himself  after  the  father 
died,  and  they  managed  to  pidl  along. 
You  can  see  from  the  appearance  of  the 
room  we're  looking  at  they're  not  wanting 
for  comfort.  Mrs.  Geoghegan — poor 
William's  zvidow  {that's  her  behind  the 
table  setting  out  the  cups) — is  a  hearty 
woman  yet,  and,  after  all,  I  suppose  she's 
not  more  than  sixty- five  years  of  age.  A 
great  manager  she  is,  and,  indeed,  she'd 
need  to  be  with  three  unmarried  daugh- 
ters under  her  feet  all  day  and  two  big 
men  of  sons.  You'd  not  like  to  deny 
Mrs.  Geoghegan  anything  she's  such  a 
pleasant  way  zvith  her,  yet  you  know  she's 
not  what  I'd  call  a  clever  woman,  I  mean 
to  say  she  hasn't  got  tJie  book-knowledge, 
the  "notions"  her  husband  had  or  her 
sister  Ellen.  But  maybe  she's  better 
without  them,  sure  what  good  is  book- 
knowledge  to  the  mother  of  a  family? 
She's  a  sirnplc,  decent  woman,  and  what 
more  do  you  want?  That  plain  girl  be- 
hind, pidling  out  the  drawer,  is  the  eldest 
daughter  Kate.  She  zvas  disappointed  a 
few  years  back  on  the  head  of  a  match 
was  made  up  for  her  and  broken  after- 
wards with  a  farmer  from  the  east  of  the 

4 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

county.  Some  dispute  it  was  oboiit  the 
fortune,  and  he  married  a  publican's 
daughter  in  tJie  latter  end.  'Tisn't  likely 
Kate  will  ever  marry,  she's  up  to  thirty- 
six  by  this  time,  with  a  grey  streak  in  her 
hair  and  two  pusJiing  sisters  behind  her, 
but  she's  a  quiet  poor  thing,  no  harm  in 
her  at  all,  very  useful  in  the  house,  I'm 
told.  I'm  sure  the  mother' d  be  hard  set 
to  manage  without  her. 

You're  admiring  the  furniture?  'Twas 
got  five  years  ago  at  the  Major's  auction. 
A  big  price  they  had  to  pay  for  it  too, 
George  didn't  want  to  buy  it  but  the 
mother's  heart  was  set  on  it.  They  got 
new  horse-hair  put  on  the  arm  chair,  the 
Major  had  it  zcore  to  the  wood  sitting  all 
day  over  the  fire,  cursing  the  Government 
and  drinking  whiskey;  the  six  plain  chairs 
are  as  good  as  new. 

Aren't  the  pictures  lovely?  They're  all 
enlarged  photographs  of  William's  fam- 
ily. That's  William  himself  over  the 
chimney-piece,  and  that's  his  brother  that 
died  in  Boston  hanging  between  the  win- 
dow and  the  door.  The  priest  in  the  plush 
frame  is  Vatukr  Maguire,  no  relation 
but  a  loi'cly  man.  There's  one  fancy  pic- 
ture, there  on  our  right,  "The  Siesta"  it's 
called — two  young  7vo}nen  asleep  in  sonic 
sort  of  a  fancy  dress. 

5 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

William  bought  the  piano  when  he 
got  married,  I'm  told  it  was  old  Doctor 
Purcell's.  Anyway  it's  a  real  old  piano; 
the  youngest  girl,  Baby,  is  a  great  one  for 
music.  The  table's  mahogany,  the  same 
as  the  cJiairs,  only  yon  can't  see  it  by  rea- 
son of  the  cloth.  They're  after  setting  the 
tea;  they  got  that  lamp  new  this  after- 
noon, isn't  it  giving  great  light?  Begob, 
there's  a  chicken  and  a  shape  and  apples 
and  a  cake — it  must  be  the  way  they're 
expecting  company. 

Oh,  the  old  one?  That's  Hannah. 
There's  not  a  house  in  the  village  she 
hasn't  been  servant  m.  She  ivas  at  a  hotel 
in  Cork  once.     Two  days  they  kept  her.] 


Hannah. 
Will  I  bring  in  the  ham,  ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Do.    Reach  me  down  the  silver  teapot,  Kate. 

['Tisn't  real  silver,  of  course,  only  one 
of  them  white  metal  ones,  but  catch  Mrs. 
Geog H EGA N  calling  it  anything  but  the 
purest  silver.     She's  smelling  it.] 

There's  a  sort  of  musty  smell  from  it. 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Kate 

Sure  we  haven't  used  it  since  Denis  was  here 
in  the  summer? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I'll  make  Hannah  scald  it.  .  .  .  God  help 
us,  is  that  the  kitchen  clock  striking  six? 

Kate 

Ah,  that  clock  is  always  apt  to  be  a  bit  fast. 
Anyway  the  train  isn't  due  till  the  quarter,  and 
it  being  market-day,  'twill  be  a  queer  thing  if 
it's  not  ten  minutes  late,  or  more. 

[Hannah's  in  again  with  the  hayn.'\ 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Put  it  there.  Now  run  across  to  Mrs. 
O'Connell's,  like  a  good  girl,  and  ask  her  to 
oblige  me  with  a  couple  of  fresh  eggs.  Tell 
her  it's  for  Denis  they  arc,  and  she'll  not  re- 
fuse you. 

Hannah. 

There  was  a  duck  Qg^  left  over  from  the 
dinner. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

A  duck  egg!     Isnt  it  well  you  know  Denis 

7 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

has  no  stomach  at  all  for  coarse  food?    Be  off 
across  the  street  this  minute. 


Hannah. 
I  will,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Here,  carry  the  teapot  before  you,  and  give 
it  a  good  scalding;  'tis  half  musty. 

Hannah. 
I  will  ma'am.     (And  off  with  her) 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Where's  Baby? 

Kate. 
She's  above  in  the  room,  writing. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Musha!    writing    and    writing.      Isn't    it    a 
wonder  she  wouldn't  come  down  and  be  ready- 
ing the  place  before  her  brother? 

Kate. 

Ah,  what  harm  ?    'Twon't  take  us  two  min- 
utes to  finish  this. 

8 


THE   WHITEHEADED   BOY 

[This  tall  girl  coming  in  is  Jane.  She 
has  a  year  or  tiuo  less  than  Kate.  A 
nice,  quiet  girl.  She  and  Donough 
Brosnan  have  been  promised  to  each 
other  these  years  past.  Is  it  chrysanthe- 
mums she  has  in  her  handf] 

Jane. 

These  are  all  Peg  Turpin  had.  She  stripped 
two  plants  to  get  them. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

They're  not  much  indeed,  but  Denis  always 
had  a  liking  for  flowers.  Put  them  there  in 
the  middle  of  the  table. 

Jane. 

That's  what  Peg  was  saying.  She  remem- 
bered the  way  when  he  was  a  little  child  he'd 
come  begging  to  her  for  a  flower  for  his  coat, 
and  never  could  she  refuse  him. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Refuse  him!  And  why  would  she  refuse 
him?  .  .  .  Bring  me  the  toasting-fork,  Kate. 
I'll  make  the  bit  of  toast  here;  'twill  be  hotter. 

\Kate's  off  to  the  kitchen  now.  .hnn't 
I  after  telling  you  she's  a  great  help  to  her 
mother.^  \ 

9 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Jane. 
I  met  Aunt  Ellen  up  the  street. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

For  goodness'  sake!  Did  she  say  she  was 
coming  here? 

Jane. 
She  did. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Oh,  then,  bad  luck  to  her,  what  a  night  she'd 
choose  to  come  here!  Where  are  we  to  put 
her  to  sleep? 

Jane. 

If  we  put  Denis  to  sleep  in  the  room  with 
George  and  Peter 

Mrs.  Geog. 

You'll  do  no  such  thing.  I'll  not  have  Denis 
turned  out  of  his  room.  The  three  of  you  girls 
must  sleep  together  in  the  big  bed;  that's  the 
only  way  we  can  manage.  .  .  .  What  crazy 
old  scheme  has  Ellen  in  her  head  this  time,  I 
wonder  ? 

Jane. 

She  didn't  tell  me,  but  by  her  manner  I 
know  she's  up  to  something. 

10 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

God  help  us !  And  Denis  will  be  making 
game  of  her,  and  maybe  she  won't  leave  him 
the  bit  of  money  after  all  .  .  .  There's  a 
man's  voice — 'tis  Denis. 

[What   a   hurry   she's  in   to   open   the 
door.] 
Ah,  it's  only  Donough. 

[He's  not  much  to  look  at,  is  he?  A 
simple  poor  fellow,  it's  a  wonder  he  had 
the  spunk  to  think  of  getting  married  at 
all.  Jane  could  have  done  better  for  her- 
self, but  she  thinks  the  world  of  the  little 
man.  God  knows  what  she  sees  in  him. 
Aren't  women  queer,  the  fancies  they 
take?] 

Donough. 

Good-night,  to  you. 

[Here's  Kate  back  icith  the  toasting- 
fork.] 

Jane. 

Good-night,  Donough. 

Do.N'OL'GII. 

Good-night,  Jane.  Have  you  your  tea 
taken  ? 

Jane. 

I  haven't. 

11 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

DONOUGH. 

I  wanted  you  to  come  across  to  the  Tem- 
perance Hall  to  the  concert.  I  didn't  think  I 
could  get  off  in  time,  but  I  can.  Swallow 
your  tea  and  come  on. 

Jane. 

Oh,  Donough,  I'd  like  to,  but,  you  see, 
Denis  is  coming  on  the  six  o'clock. 

Donough. 

Yerra,  Denis  will  keep.  Get  your  hat  and 
come  on. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

What's  that,  Donough  ?  Jane,  where  are  you 
going? 

Jane. 

Nowhere,  mother.  Donough  wanted  me  to 
go  to  the  concert  with  him. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

She  couldn't  go  out  to-night,  thank  you, 
Donough.  She  must  be  here  to  look  after 
Denis. 

Jane. 

I'd  better  stay,  Donough. 

12 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

To-morrow  night,  now,  she'd  be  deHghted. 
And  maybe  Denis  would  go  with  the  two  of 
you.     That  would  be  nice,  now. 

DONOUGH. 

Oh,  faith,  that  would  be  grand — grand  en- 
tirely!  Only,  you  see,  there  s  no  concert  to- 
morrow night. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Isn't  that  a  pity,  and  Denis  so  fond  of  music. 
....  i  left  a  drop  of  cream  on  the  kitchen 
table;  fetch  it  for  me,  Kate. 

Jane. 
Stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Donough. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Sure,  I  suppose  the  man  had  his  tea  an  hour 
ago. 

Donough. 

T  had,  indeed,  Mrs.  Geoghcgaii.  I'll  say 
good-night  to  you.  Take  care  of  Denis. 
{He  is  going.) 

Jane. 

I'll  see  ycni  as  far  the  door,  Donough. 

[They're  gone.  \ 
13 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

What  at  all  was  Jane  thinking  of,  asking  a 
stranger  to  stop  to  tea  to-night? 


Kate. 

What  stranger?  Is  it  Donough?  Sure  he's 
like  one  of  the  family,  and  will  be  in  real  earn- 
est the  day  he  marries  Jane. 


Mrs.  Geog 

^  sometii 
husband  will  he  make  her 


I'm  wondering  sometimes   what  sort  of  a 


Kate. 
The  best  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  don't  know.  He's  a  queer,  selfish  man. 
Wanting  Jane  to  go  out  with  him  to-night. 
(She's  going  to  the  door.  )  Hannah !  Hannah ! 
.  .  .  God  help  us,  she'll  be  all  night  gossiping 
at  O'Connell's.  (She's  listening  at  the  door.) 
Who's  that  going  out? 

A  Voice. 

It's  me,  mother. 

14 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Come  in  here  to  me,  Baby. 

[Here  she  comes.  Isn't  she  a  great 
lump  of  a  girl?  She's  thirty  if  she's  a 
day,  but  she  doesn't  look  it — 'tis  the  way 
she  dresses  I  suppose.  She's  a  great  idea 
of  herself  entirely,  it's  as  much  as  the 
mother  can  do  to  hold  her  in.  A  long  en- 
velope she  has  in  her  hand.] 

Baby. 
Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

We're  through  now,  Baby,  small  thanks  to 
you.     Where  are  you  off  to? 

Baby. 
Only  to  Duffy's  to  post  this. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Is  it  love-letters  you  were  writing  all  day? 

Baby. 

You  know  well  it  wasn't.     Only  my  short- 
hand for  Skerry's. 

15 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Shorthand,  moyah !  I'd  sooner  they  were 
love-letters.  I've  heard  it  said  Thomas 
Naughton  married  Julia  Roche  for  her  lucky 
hand  with  butter,  but  I  never  heard  yet  of  a 
man  marrying  a  girl  for  shorthand. 

Baby. 

I'm  not  wishing  to  get  married,  thank  you. 
It's  not  my  intention  to  spend  my  days  in  Bal- 
lycolman.  Up  to  Dublin  I'm  going,  and  if  I 
marry  there,  it's  a  gentleman  I'll  marry — a 
gentleman  who  works  in  an  office.  {That's 
Baby  for  yon\) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Tell  Jane  to  come  in  out  of  that.  She's  at 
the  door  saying  good-night  to  Donough  for 
the  last  half  hour.      (Off  she  goes.) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Kate,  what  did  I  ever  do  to  have  such  a  fool 
for  a  dausfhter  ? 


'fc>' 


Kate. 
Ah,  she's  young;  little  more  than  a  child. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Faith,    it's    time    she    learned    sense.  . 

16 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Now,  if  Hannah  would  bring  the  eggs  we'd 
be  ready.    You  brought  in  the  drop  of  cream? 

Kate. 
It  was  here  all  along,  mother. 

[Here's  Ellen  Geoghegan  herself 
along  with  Jane.  You  could  tell  from 
her  appearance  the  sort  she  is,  a  bit 
cranky  and  a  nasty  twist  to  her  tongue  if 
she  liked,  full  of  notions  and  schemes, 
she's  a  terrible  one  for  reading;  'tis  that 
has  her  head  turned,  tliere's  not  a  zveek 
she  hasn't  the  "Free  Press,"  the  "Eagle," 
and  the  Supplement  to  the  "Examiner" 
read  to  the  bone.  Still  and  all,  she's  a 
woman  to  be  respected,  she  must  have  a 
couple  of  hundred  acres  back  there  at  Kil- 
murray,  and  'tis  she  ozcns  thou  three 
small  houses  at  the  other  end  of  the  vil- 
lage. .  .  .  Yes,  indeed,  a  wonder  she 
never  married — too  many  notions,  may 
be.] 

Jane. 
Here's  Aunt  Ellen. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

How  are  you,  Ellen?     I  hope  you're  good? 

[How  sweet  thc\  arc,  kissuu)!] 
2  17 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I'm  grand,  thank  you.  How  are  all  of  you. 
Will  it  bother  you  to  put  me  up  for  the  night  ? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I've  a  lot  to  talk  over  with  you  all. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

You  have?  And  you'll  see  Denis.  We're 
expecting  him  from  Dublin  any  minute. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Is  that  a  fact?  Did  he  pass  his  examin- 
ation? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

He  did.  At  least,  he  told  me  he'd  be  sure 
to  pass. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

That's  good  news.     Twice  he's  failed. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Small  blame  to  him  if  he  did.  He  got  a  sort 
of  a  weakness  the  first  time — too  hard  he  was 
working,  Ellen — and  the  last  time  there  was  a 
cross  old  fellow  examining.     Denis  told  me  he 

18 


THE  U'HITEHEADED  BOY 

couldn't  come  round  him  at  all;  nothing  he 
said  would  please  him.  Isn't  it  a  wonder, 
Ellen,  they'd  have  such  a  cross  man  to  exam- 
ine them? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I'm  told  Dublin  doctors  are  a  fright  for 
crossness.  Sure,  there  was  a  First  Aid  class 
over  at  my  own  place,  and  a  doctor  from  Dub- 
lin came  down  to  examine  them.  Well,  three 
girls  was  all  he  would  pass  out  of  the  twenty, 
and  one  of  them  had  a  brother  a  medical  and 
a  mother  who  went  mad  and  drowned  herself, 
so  she  was  experienced  like.  But  as  to  the 
lads,  divil  a  one  would  wait  to  be  examined 
after  they  heard  how  the  girls  had  fared; 
they  took  to  their  heels  and  up  to  the  moun- 
tains with  them.     Oh,  Dublin  doctors! 


Mrs.  Geog. 

I  tell  you  then,  they're  clever  men.  No  one 
knows  that  better  than  myself  after  all  1  went 
through  the  time  Denis  was  born.  And  it's  up 
in  Dublin  Denis  will  be  when  he's  a  doctor. 
He'll  never  be  one  of  your  common  dispen- 
saries, hat  in  hand  to  every  guardian  in  the 
country. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You're    right,    .\nii,    you're    right.      He's   a 

19 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

sight  too  clever  for  that.  .  .  .    But,  tell  me, 
are  George  and  Peter  inside? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

George  didn't  come  up  from  the  shop  yet, 
and  Peter  went  down  to  the  station  to  meet 
Denis.  George  will  be  up  for  his  tea  any 
minute. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  want  to  speak  to  them.  I've  a  great  plan 
in  my  head.  {Look  at  them  all  looking  at  each 
other.    She  has  them  wore  out  with  her  plans.) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  tell  me,  Ellen,  that  'tis  goats  again. 
I  was  thinking  the  other  day  it  was  only  by  the 
help  of  God  you  got  shut  of  those  queer  out- 
landish goats  you  had. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I  haven't  had  a  goat  these  two  years. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
'Tis  well  for  you. 

Kate. 

Another  time  you  were  for  making  a  for- 
tune out  of  tobacco. 

20 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Jane. 

Another  time  it  was  Muscovy  ducks — cross, 
wild  things ;  they  had  me  in  dread  every  time  I 
went  to  see  you. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Well,  I  have  spirit  in  me  and  independence. 
I'm  not  like  the  common  farmer  people,  plod- 
ding on  in  the  same  old  rut  from  generation 
to  generation. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  mind  the  children,  Ellen.  It's  only 
joking  they  are.  Tell  us  what's  on  your  mind 
now. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Well,  I've  been  reading  a  deal  lately  about 
co-operation. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
What? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Co-operation.  They  say  it  will  be  the  sal- 
vation of  Ireland. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Wisha,  don't  believe  them.  They're  always 
blowing  ab<jut  this,  that,  and  the  other,  and 

21 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

saying  it's  to  be  the  salvation  of  the  country. 
Sure,  they  must  be  talking,  the  creatures.  In 
my  young  days  it  was  the  Land  League;  then 
it  was  Parnell;  a  couple  of  years  ago  'twas 
them  Sinn  Feiners  were  to  save  us,  or  John 
Redmond — I  don't  rightly  remember  which.  I 
wouldn't  believe  one  of  them.  Pull  away  and 
do  your  work  and  put  money  in  the  Bank; 
that's  the  only  thing  to  do.  Anyway,  George 
says  co-operation  will  be  the  ruin  of  us. 
(She's  a  rock  of  sense,  that  zvoinan.) 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Well,  I'm  surprised  at  him,  and  he  a  shop- 
keeper and  a  farmer.  By  all  accounts,  it 
should  be  a  great  lift  to  him.  Anyway,  my 
co-operatoin  is  going  to  be  a  lift  to  the  family. 
Listen  here  to  me,  Ann  .  .  . 

[Here's  George  now.  The  eldest  of 
the  faniily.  A  steady  man,  a  hit  soured, 
maybe,  hut  who  wouldn't  he  and  that 
string  of  sisters  depending  on  him.  He 
was  forty  last  summer,  hut  he  looks 
more.  ] 

George. 

Is  the  tea  ready,  mother? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

We'll  have  it  the  very  minute  Denis  comes. 

22 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
I  didn't  see  you,  Aunt  Ellen.    How  are  you. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I'm  good,  thanks.     You're  looking  well. 

George. 

I  can't  wait,  mother.     Let  me  have  a  cup  of 
tea.     I  have  to  go  back  to  the  shop. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  sit  there,  like  a  good  boy;  you'll  toss 
the  table.     {But  he  sits  all  the  same.) 

George. 
Ham,  chicken,  apples,  a  cake — is  it  a  party? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Not   at   all — only    Denis   coming,   and   he'll 
want  a  bit  after  the  jcmrney. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You  spoil  Denis,  Ann.    Tie  was  always  your 
whiteheaded  boy. 

Mrs.  Gf.oc. 

Indeed  he's  nothing  of   ihc  kind.      1    don't 
make  a  pin's  point  of  difference  between  one 

23 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

child  and  another.  .  .  .  Hannah  would  give 
you  a  nice  cup  of  tea  in  the  kitchen,  George. 
There's  bread-and-butter  there,  and  a  lovely 
duck  egg  was  left  over  from  the  dinner.  Run 
and  tell  her,  Kate. 

George. 
I'll  go  myself. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Stay  here  a  minute.     I've  been  telling  your 
mother  of  a  great  plan  I  have. 

[There's  Kate  off  to  give  the  message. 
Didn't  I  tell  yon  that's  the  sort  she  wasf] 

George. 
What  ails  you  now. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  co-operative  shop, 
George  ? 

George. 

I  did.      I'd  have  nothing  to  do  with  one  of 
them. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Why? 

24 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

They're  bad.  Ruining  honest  traders,  that's 
what  they're  doing. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Is  that  a  fact?  Well,  we're  starting  one 
over  at  Kilmurray. 

George. 
You  are? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Up  there  in  the  mountains  you  know  how 
hard  it  is  for  us  to  get  anything.  Sylvester 
Brannigan  is  the  only  one  who's  by  way  of 
being  a  trader,  and  God  knows  I  wouldn't  have 
it  on  my  conscience  that  I  called  him  an  honest 
one.  So  a  lot  of  us  have  joined  together  and 
we're  going  to  open  a  store  there.  It's  going 
to  be  a  great  thing  for  the  family. 


George. 


How  so? 


Aunt  Ellen. 

The  papers  say  that  half  the  success  of  a 
co-operative  shop  depends  on  the  manager. 
We're  going  to  give  a  good  salary  to  our 
manager — up  to  £150  a  year — and  there's  a 
small  house  anfl  an  acre  of  land. 

25 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
And  who  is  he  to  be? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Your  own  brother,  Peter. 

George. 
Peter ! 

Mrs.  Geog. 
For  goodness'  sake ! 

Aunt  Ellen 

Isn't  he  just  the  man  for  the  place?  He 
knows  all  about  a  shop;  he's  clever  and  hard- 
working, and  if  he  was  out  of  this,  Donough 
could  marry  Jane  and  come  in  and  work  in 
his  place. 

Jane. 

Oh,  Aunt  Ellen,  aren't  you  the  great  woman 
for  plans ! 

Aunt  Ellen. 

A  minute  ago  I  was  the  greatest  old  fool 
in  the  world. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  hear  steps  in  the  street.  Run  out,  Jane, 
and  see  if  it's  the  train  after  coming  in. 

[Jane's  off.] 

2JS 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Would  it  cost  a  deal  of  money,  Ellen,  to  get 
that  place?  I  suppose  there'd  be  an  amount  of 
canvassing  to  be  done? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Not  at  all.  Isn't  Jamesy  Walshe,  Don- 
oucrh's  mother's  cousin?  Won't  he  want  Peter 
to  get  it?  Isn't  Patrick  Hogan  married  to 
John  Duffy's  sister,  and  is  he  likely  to  be  un- 
friendly to  Denis's  brother,  to  the  brother  of 
the  man  his  niece,  Delia  Duffy,  is  going  to 
marry?  Not  at  all.  And  then  there's  myself, 
who  started  the  whole  thing.  I  tell  you,  Peter 
wouldn't  be  called  on  to  spend  as  much  as  half- 
a-crown  in  a  public-house. 

George. 

It  might  suit  Peter  all  right. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

But,  George,  if  them  co-operative  things  are 
as  bad  as  you  say,  maybe  we  oughtn't  to  let 
Peter  be  mixed  up  in  them. 

George. 

Sure,  somebody's  got  to  get  that  £150,  and 
we  might  as  well  get  it  as  another.  God  knows 
we  want  money  badly.  I'm  striving  to  |)iit 
enough    bv     for     Jane's    marriage — and    now 

27 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

nothing  will  do  Baby  but  to  hyse  up  to  Dublin 
learning  book-keeping  or  shorthand  or  some- 
thin  5 


»g- 


Aunt  Ellen. 
Glory  be  to  God!     Is  it  notions  she  has? 

George. 

Ay,  notions.  But  they're  notions  that  cost 
me  money,  and  it  costs  a  lot  to  make  Denis  a 
doctor. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Well,  the  Creegans  made  their  son  a  doctor, 
and  I'm  sure  they're  in  a  very  small  way. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Is  it  that  little  snipeen  of  a  fellow — Joe 
Creegan?  Sure  you  wouldn't  put  him  along- 
side my  Denis.     He's  no  smartness. 

George. 

Denis  is  smart  enough  to  run  up  debits  in 
Dublin- 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Debts ! 

George. 

Ay,  and  betting  on  horses. 

28 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

From  the  time  he  was  a  Httle  fellow  he  was 
always  fond  of  horses,  Ellen.  I  remember 
well  one  day,  and  he  little  more  than  a 
baby 

George. 

Well,  he's  a  bit  too  damned  fond  of  them 
for  me. 

[Here's  Kate  hack.^ 

Kate. 

I've  a  nice  cup  of  tea  for  you  ready  in  the 
kitchen 

George. 

Thank  you,  Kate.  We'll  speak  again  about 
this,  Aunt.  You're  staying  the  night,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I  am. 

[And  Baby  and  Jane  in  now.\ 

Baby. 

How  are  you.  Aunt  IClIcn.  {More  kissing.) 
Mr.  Duffy  gave  me  this  at  the  Post  Office.  1 
sui)i)Osc  it's  for  you,  George.  'Tis  a  tele- 
gram.) 

29 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

A  telegram !  Oh,  has  something  happened 
to  Denis?  I  knew  he  should  be  here  before 
this Oh,  George,  what  is  it  at  all  at  all? 

Jane. 

Be  easy,  mother. 

[She's  all  in  a  flutter.  Wisha,  she's 
cracked  about  Denis.  'Tisn't  so  easy  to 
stir  George.  .  .  .  He's  read  it  now.] 

George. 

It's  not  from  Denis,  at  all.  .  .  .  But  I  think 
it's  for  him. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
What's  in  it? 

George. 

"Hard  luck.  Geoghegan's  Hope  also  ran. 
Sorry.     Flanagan." 

Mrs.  Geog. 
What  does  that  mean? 

George. 

I  know  no  more  than  yourself. 

30 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Show  me  it.  There  doesn't  seem  sense  or 
meaning  in  it. 

Jane. 

You've  some  idea  in  your  head  about  it, 
George  ? 

George. 

I  have.  It's  my  belief  it's  about  a  horse- 
race. It's  my  behef  Denis  has  been  betting 
again.  {He'll  be  losing  his  temper  in  a 
minute.) 

Kate. 

He  wouldn't.  He  gave  you  his  word  he 
wouldn't. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

'Tis  a  terrible  curse.  I  read  on  "The  Eagle" 
only  last  week  of  a  young  man  who  shot  him- 
self on  the  head  of  all  the  money  he  lost  on 
horses. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
You  frighten  me,  Ellen. 

George. 

You  need  have  no  fear  of  Denis.  He'll  not 
be  the  one  to  pay;  'tis  us  will  have  to  do  that. 

31 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Baby. 
That's  a  fact. 

George. 
It'll  be  the  last  time.     I'm  damned  if- 


Kate. 
Hush,  hush,  George! 

[Jane's  looking  at  the  telegram  mow.] 

Jane. 

Flanagan.  That's  the  name  of  the  young 
gentleman  came  to  see  Denis  on  a  motor  bi- 
cycle last  summer. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  remember  him  myself.  A  lovely  young 
gentleman.  Seemingly  he  had  a  great  liking 
for  Denis — he  talked  to  me  about  him  for  a 
long  time,  half  laughing  like.  The  "hope  of 
the  Geoghegans"  he  called  him. 

George. 

What's  that?  The  "hope  of  the  Geoghe- 
gans"?   Did  he  call  him  that? 

32 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

He  did.  Denis  told  me  'twas  a  sort  of  a  pet 
name  he  put  on  him  in  college. 

Jane. 
What  is  it,  George? 

George. 

"Geoghegan's  Hope  also  ran."  That's 
either  a  race  horse,  or  it's  Denis  himself. 

Jane. 
I  don't  understand  you. 

George. 

He's  either  broken  his  word  to  me  and  is 
betting  on  horses,  or  else  .  .  .  he's  failed 
again. 

Jane. 

His  e.xamination,  you  mean? 

George. 
I  do. 

Jane. 
God  help  us! 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Yerra,    he    hasn't    failed.      Don't    think    it. 
»  33 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George.     He  told  me  himself  last  week  in  a 
letter  he'd  be  certain  to  pass. 

Kate. 
'T would  be  terrible  for  him  if  he  failed. 

Baby. 
'Twoiild  be  terrible  for  us,  you  mean. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

He'd  never  break  his  word  to  you  about  the 
betting. 

George. 

For  his  own  sake  I'd  almost  hope  he  had. 
For  if  this  isn't  about  a  horse,  if  it's  about 
Denis  himself,  if  it  means  he's  failed,  I'll — 
I'll 

Mrs.  Geog. 

You're  speaking  very  cross,  George,  about 
your  brother. 

George. 

I  have  reason  to  speak  cross.  If  he's  failed 
for  the  third  time,  divil  another  penny  will  he 
get  from  me — except  his  passage  to  Canada. 

[^They're   storing    at    him;    they    don't 
believe  him.] 

34 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

I  mean  it.  You're  all  looking  at  me  as  if  I 
was  out  of  my  senses.  It's  out  of  our  senses 
we've  been  all  these  years  and  years,  spending 
lashings  of  money  on  an  idle,  good-for-nothing 
young  fellow. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Yerra,  George !  .  .  . 

George. 

From  the  day  he  was  born,  hasn't  every- 
thing been  given  to  him?  Look  at  the  whips 
of  money  laid  by  for  his  education.  He  was 
too  grand  and  too  clever  to  be  sent  to  the 
National  School  like  the  rest  of  us — poor  Mr. 
Lacy  didn't  know  enough  to  teach  him ;  oh,  no ! 
he  had  to  go  into  the  city  every  day  by  train — 
second-class — to  be  taught  by  the  Christian 
Brothers.  Look  at  Kate  there,  worn  and  grey 
before  her  time,  an  old  maid.  Wouldn't  she 
have  Ijen  married  ten  years  ago  to  Jer  Connor 
only  we  hadn't  a  penny  to  give  with  her,  it  all 
being  kept  for  the  laddo,  to  send  him  to  col- 
lege. Trinity  College,  nothing  less  would  be  fit- 
ting of  course.  And  what's  there  to  show  for 
it  all?  Nothing  at  all.  He  doesn't  even  pass 
his  examinations.  What's  keeping  Jane  from 
marrying  Donough,  only  Denis?  What's 
keeping  Baby  at  home,  and  she  mad  to  be 
learning  up   in   Dublin,  onlv   Denis?     What's 

35 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

keeping  us  straitened  and  pinching  and  sav- 
ing, only  Denis,  Denis,  Denis?  But  the  old 
horse  learns  its  lesson  in  the  end,  and  I've 
learnt  mine.  Not  another  red  halfpenny  will 
he  get  from  me.  You  can  tell  him  that  when 
he  comes  in. 

[And  off  with  him,  banging  the  door 
after  Jiini.] 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Ellen,  what's  come  to  him  at  all  to  speak 
like  that? 

Baby. 

It's  true  what  he  says.     Every  word  of  it's 
true. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Hold  your  tongue,  girl ! 

[That's  one  for  Baby^  she's  flouncing 
out  of  the  room.] 

Kate,  run  after  your  brother  and  pacify  him. 

[She's  gone,  but  zvhat  can  she  do,  the 
creature f] 

What's  come  to  him  at  all  at  all  ? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

'Tis  true,  you  always  made  a  pet  of  the  boy 
— but  sure  we  all  did.     I  was  reading  in  the 

36 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

"Girl's  Friend"  not  long  ago  how  foolish  it 
was  for  a  mother  to  be  making  differences  be- 
tween her  children.    They  said  that — 

Mrs.  Geog. 

And  why  shouldn't  I  make  differences?  Is 
there  anyone  living  who'd  stand  up  on  the  floor 
and  say  that  Denis  isn't  smarter  and  cleverer 
than  his  two  brothers — or  his  sisters,  either — 
or  the  whole  menagerie  of  the  Geoghegans 
lumped  together?  From  the  day  he  was  born 
I  knew  he  was  different.  Oh,  Ellen,  it  will 
break  my  heart  if  George  turns  against  him 
now!     {Is  it  crying  she  is?) 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Quiet  yourself,  Ann.  .  .  .  Go  out,  Jane, 
and  speak  to  your  brother.  He  always  had 
respect  for  you. 

Jane. 

ril  see  what  mood  he  is  in.  {She's  gone 
after  him — sJie  knows  how  to  humour  him.) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

From  the  day  he  was  born  I  knew  he  was 
different.  I  was  getting  an  (;ld  woman  when 
he  came  .  .  .  you  remember,  I'lllen ;  it  was 
nearly    ten    years    after    i'iaby    was    born.      I 

2>7 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

thought  I'd  never  have  another  child;  it  seemed 
Hke  a  miracle.  ...  I  thought  I'd  die  w^ith  it. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
You  were  nervous,  I  remember  that. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Nervous?  I  was  mad  afraid.  My  sister — 
poor  Bridgie — made  me  go  up  to  Dublin  to  see 
a  doctor  there.  Oh,  Ellen,  that  doctor  was  a 
lovely  man.  He  was  a  sort  of  a  lord.  Sir  Denis 
Bellingham  Burke,  that  was  his  name.  He'd 
have  nothing  to  do  with  common  cases, 
'twould  be  no  use  going  to  him  with  a  broken 
leg  or  a  sick  stomach  or  the  like — he  wouldn't 
look  at  you.  Women  like  me,  those  are  all  he'd 
see,  and  he  told  me  .  .  . 

[She's   ivhispering.      IVe    oughtn't    to 
listen  :    'Tis  no  place  for  tis.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  remember  your  telling  me  that  at  the  time. 
It  was  surprising. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Wasn't  it  now?  Well,  I  did  every  mortal 
thing  he  told  me  to.  I  went  into  a  sort  of 
hospital — I'd  be  afraid  to  tell  you  what  they 
made  me  pay — but  I  had  the  best  of  every- 

38 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

thing,  and  when  Denis  was  born  I  called  him 
after  the  dear  doctor. 


Aunt  Ellen. 

And  made  up  your  mind  to  make  a  doctor 
of  him, 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  did.  'Twas  like  a  miracle,  a  boy  to  come 
after  all  those  three  lumps  of  girls.  .  .  .  He 
was  a  lovely  child  .  .  .  and  now  if  George 
turns  against  him!  Sure  he  has  the  money, 
and  can  do  what  he  likes.  Denis  away  in 
Canada !     'Twould  break  my  heart. 

[Kate's  hack.'\ 

Kate. 

He's  ramping  and  raging  in  the  kitchen. 
He  says  if  the  telegram  is  true,  if  he's  missed 
his  examination,  he'll  ship  him  off  next  week. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I'll  go  to  George  myself.  I'll  talk  him  over. 
He  can't  be  in  earnest.  And  what  about  Delia 
Duffy?  Isn't  be  promised  to  her  as  soon  as 
ever  he's  a  doctor?  Is  she  to  be  shipped  to 
Canada  along  with  him?  Wbcre's  (icorge? 
I'll  go  to  him. 

{God  help  George  ivhcn  he  meets  her. 
39 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Ah!  here's  Denis  in  the  other  door.  Isn't 
he  lovely f  You'd  know  he  was  from 
Dublin  by  his  clothes  and  his  smartness. 
He's  just  turned  twenty-two.] 

Denis. 
Hullo,  mother! 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Denis  my  darling  boy!  {She's  flinging  her 
arms  round  his  neck;  she'll  have  him  choked.) 

Denis. 

Hold  on,  mother — or,  rather,  don't  hold  on ! 
Don't  kill  me  altogether! 

Mrs.  Geog. 
How  are  you,  my  poor  boy? 

Denis. 

Top  hole.  Hullo  Aunt  Ellen;  this  is  an  un- 
expected pleasure.  {I'd  say  he  was  codding 
her  from  the  way  he  kissed  her.)  Well, 
Kate. 

{This  young  girl  coming  in  is  Delia 
Duffy.  She's  not  as  simple  as  she  looks. 
She's  her  father's  daughter.  The  fellow 
with  her  carrying  all  the  luggage  is  Peter 

40 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Geoghegan,  he's  nothing  much  one  way 
or  the  other.] 

Peter. 

Where  will  I  leave  these? 

Denis. 

Oh,  chuck  them  up  into  my  room,  like  a 
good  chap.     Here  I'll  give  you  this  coat. 

[Poor  Peter.] 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Oh,  Delia,  I  didn't  see  you.  Come  in  and 
sit  down.    You  went  to  the  station,  I  suppose  ? 

Delia. 

I  did.  I  can't  wait,  Mrs.  Geoghegan, 
thanks. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Yerra,  stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea. 

Delia. 

I  must  be  off  home  to  give  my  father  his 
supper.  Denis  will  come  down  and  sec  me 
later.  There's  questions  I  want  to  ask  him.  1 
have  it  in  my  mind  he's  been  carrying  on  with  .i 
young  lady  in  Dnljlin.     (She  is  going.) 

41 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 
Denis. 


Delia,  I  swear  . 


Delia. 


Ssh !     Don't  tell  lies  on  an  empty  stomach ; 
wait  till  after  tea. 

[She's  gone.] 

Denis. 

But,  Delia,  I  .  .  . 

[He's  gone  after  her,  she  has  him  in 
good  order.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He's  looking  gay  enough  now.     Little  he 
knows  what's  before  him ! 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Oh,  Ellen ! 

[Here's  George,  Jane,  and  Baby.] 

Jane. 
Has  he  come? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He  has. 

42 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

George,  you  won't  be  hard  on  him?  He's 
dead  tired  and  hungry. 

George. 
Did  he  say  anything  about  the  examination  ? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

He  didn't ;  it's  Hkely  he  doesn't  know.  It'll 
break  his  heart  when  he  finds  out  he's  failed — 
if  failed  he  has.  Couldn't  we  keep  it  from 
him  for  a  day  or  two? 

Jane. 

It's  better  he  should  know  it,  mother. 
George  is  right.     It's  time  a  change  was  made. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Jane ! 

Jane. 

You  never  think,  maybe,  I'd  want  my 
chance  as  well  as  Denis.  You  never  think, 
maybe,  Donough  will  get  tired  waiting. 

[  Yoii  zt'oiildn't  think'  Jane  could  be  so 
bitler.] 

Bap.y. 

And  I'm  not  going  to  stay  in  this  hole  (if  a 
place  any  longer. 

43 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

You're  an  unnatural  family,  that's  what  you 
are! 

[Denis  is  hack;  he  has  a  box  of  cigars 
in  his  hand.] 

Denis. 

What's  the  confabulation  about?  Have  you 
a  match,  George? 

Mrs.  Geogh. 
Tell  Hannah  to  bring  in  the  tea. 

[Of  course  it's  Kate  that  goes.] 

Denis. 

Beastly  cold,  isn't  it? 

[Look  at  them  moving  aside  so  that  he 
can  have  the  centre  of  the  fire.] 

Well,  Aunt  Ellen,  what's  the  latest?  Is  it 
true  you've  been  making  a  fortune  turning  turf 
into  paper? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
It  isn't 

Denis. 

I'm  surprised  to  hear  that.  A  wide-awake 
woman   like  you,   with  a  bog  of  your  own. 

44 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

You  should  keep   moving,   Aunt   Ellen,  keep 
moving 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Thank  you  for  your  advice. 

George. 

Aunt  Ellen  has  some  regard  for  the  family. 
She's  got  a  good  position  in  her  eye  for  Peter. 

Denis, 
What's  that? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Manager  of  a  shop,  a  co-operative  shop. 

Denis. 

Co-operation?  I  see.  That's  the  latest 
Sir  What's-his-name,  the  hairy  poet  chap  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  gang — they'll  suit  you  down 
to  the  ground.  Aunt  Ellen.  They're  just  your 
sort. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Do  you  know  them? 

Denis. 

Me?     No — th.-mk   Tlod! 

45 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
It's  time  some  of  us  made  a  little  money. 

Denis. 

Oh,  if  there's  money  in  it.  I'm  sure  there's 
no  one  knows  better  than  I  do  how  much  we 
want  money. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Poor  boy ! 

George. 

No  one  knows  better  than  you  do  how  to 
spend  it. 

Denis. 

Well,  it's  made  to  be  spent,  isn't  it?  What 
are  you  grousing  about,  anyway?  Look  what 
I  brought  you.  {He's  giving  him  the  box  of 
cigars.)     They're  good  ones,  too. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Oh,  George,  isn't  it  good  of  Denis?  He 
never  forgets  you.  (She's  glad  of  the  chance 
to  soften  George.) 

Denis. 

Wait  till  you  see  what  I  have  upstairs  in  my 
bag  for  you,  mother. 

46 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

Thank  you,  but  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't 
spend  your  money — I  mean  my  money — on 
me. 

Denis. 

Oh,  I've  been  jolly  economical  lately.  I  don't 
believe  I've  had  more  than  ten  pounds  from 
you  since  the  summer. 

George. 
Ten!    You  believe  queer  things. 

Denis. 
Well,  not  more  than  twenty — or  twenty-five. 

George. 
Tell  me  this:  have  you  been  betting  lately? 


George ! 


Mrs.  Geog. 


Denis. 


No.  Honour  brif,'ht.  Never  once  since  you 
gave  me  tiiat  rowing.  Though  1  don't  mind 
telling  you  I  missed  a  good  thing  last  week; 
could  have  made  twenty  pounds  as  easily  as 
lighting  a  cigarette. 

47 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Jane. 
You're  sure  you  weren't  betting? 

Denis. 

Absolutely.  .  .  .  Why  you  all  look  disap- 
pointed ...  as  if  you  wished  I  had  been 
.  .  .  Wha_t's  the  matter? 

George. 

What  does  this  mean  so?  {He's  giving  him 
the  telegram.) 

Denis. 
A  wire  ?    Is  it  for  me  ? 

George. 
Read  it  and  see. 

Denis. 

Oh,  I  suppose  it's  from  Flanagan.  He 
said  he'd  wire  the  result  of  the  exam. ;  it  wasn't 
out  when  I  left  Dublin. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  mind  it,  Denis.  Have  your  tea  first 
— 'tis  nothing  at  all. 

Baby. 

Be  quiet,  mother.    Can't  you  let  him  read  it? 

48 


yHE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
Well? 

Denis. 

Oh,  I've  lost  my  exam.  Isn't  that  a  beastly 
nuisance?  I'm  not  surprised;  I  guessed  I 
hadn't  got  it.  {Faith,  it  doesn't  seem  to 
trouble  him.) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Never  mind,  my  poor  boy.  It  doesn't 
matter  the  least  bit  in  the  world. 

[Hannah,     Kate     and     Peter     are 
back.] 

Here's  Hannah  with  the  tea.  .  .  .  Put  this 
out  of  your  head  and  have  a  bit  of  chicken  and 
a  sup  of  tea. 

[She's  coaxing  him  to  the  table.] 

Sure,  what  are  those  examinations  after  all? 
Only  cross  questions  and  botheration.  1  never 
could  see  the  use  of  them.  Run  off  and  boil  an 
egg,  Hannah. 

1 1  Iannah's  gone.] 

There's  a  nice  hot  cup,  now.  Drink  it  and 
don't  worry  your  head  over  this. 

49 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

Oh.  I'm  not  worrying,  mother.  I'll  get  it 
next  time  to  a  dead  cert.  ( He's  eating  his  tea 
as  if  nothing  had  ha /opened.) 

George. 

You  won't. 

Denis. 

Oh,  yes,  I  will.  You'll  see.  I'll  work  like  a 
nigger  from  now  till  June.  Don"t  worry  about 
it,  old  chap.     Push  me  over  the  butter. 

George. 

I've  done  worrying.  I've  gone  through  a 
deal  of  that  in  the  last  few  years. 

Denis. 

That's  right.  Take  life  easy.  That's  what 
I  do. 

George. 

I've  been  thinking  that.  It's  time  you  wor- 
ried round  a  bit  now. 

Denis. 
I'll  worry  till  I  get  this  exam,  anyway. 

George. 

I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to. 

50 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 
What   do   you   mean?     You're  all   looking 
dashed  solemn.     What  is  it? 

\^He's  beginning  to  feel  there's  some- 
thing up.] 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  mind  George,  Denis.  He's  a  bit  put 
out  to-night,  but 

George. 

Mother!  We've  been  thinking  things  over; 
we  think  you've  been  long  enough  at  College; 
it's  time  you  left. 


Denis. 

Left!      Leave  Trinity!      But  I'm  only  half 
through. 

George. 

That's  not  my  fault,  is  it  ? 

Denis. 

But    1    can't    become    a    doctor.      I'm    not 
qualified. 

George. 

I'm  not  asking  you  to  be  a  doctor. 

51 


THE  IVHITEH HADED  BOY 

Denis. 

But  .  .  .  what  ...  1  don't  understand. 

George. 

Well,  here  it  is  in  two  words.  There's  been 
enough  and  too  much  money  spent  on  you;  I'll 
spend  no  more.  Yes,  I  will  though — twenty 
pounds  more.  That'll  pay  your  passage  to 
Canada  and  leave  a  bit  in  your  pocket. 

[That's  a  slap   in   the  face  for  him. 
There's  not  a  word  out  of  him.] 

Denis. 
You're  joking. 

George. 
I  am  not. 

Denis. 
But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  why? 

George. 

Because  there's  a  couple  of  others  here  to 
consider  as  well  as  yourself.  It's  fair  they 
should  get  their  chance.    You've  had  yours. 

Denis. 

And  w-hat  am  I  to  do  in  Canada? 

52 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

You  can  find  out  when  you  get  there. 
You've  a  pair  of  hands,  haven't  you?  When 
you've  an  empty  belly  and  a  pair  of  hands,  I 
tell  you  you  won't  be  long  finding  something  to 
do. 

Denis. 

I  see  .  .  .  Are  you  all  agreed  on  this — or 
is  it  only  George? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Denis,  darling,  I'll  never  desert  you. 

Denis. 
Are  you  all  agreed  on  this? 

Jane. 

I'd  be  sorry  you'd  go,  but  Donough  is  get- 
ting tired  waiting  for  me. 

Baby. 

You're  not  the  only  one  wants  education, 
I'm  not  going  to  stick  in  Ijallyc(jlman  all  my 
life. 

Kate. 

George  is  right. 

53 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You've  had  your  chance,  Denis,  and  you've 
thrown  it  away.  It's  time  you  turned  round 
and  worked  for  yourself.  Let  this  be  a  lesson 
to  you 

Peter. 
It's  time  I  got  a  look  in. 

Denis. 
Well,  I  think  it's  a  damned  shame. 

[He'll  be  losing  his  temper  in  a  minute.] 

George. 

It's  your  own  fault.  You  brought  it  on 
yourself. 

Denis. 

I  didn't.  I  didn't !  I  never  asked  to  be  sent 
to  College ;  I  never  asked  to  have  all  this  money 
spent  on  me.  I'd  have  been  content  to  live  here 
with  the  rest  of  you 

Peter. 
You  were  too  clever  for  the  like  of  us. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Different  altogether. 

54 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 
I  wasn't. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

To  look  at  you  standing  there  amongst  them, 
Denis,  'tis  easy  seen  how  different  you  are 

Denis. 

Yes,  I'm  different  now,  but  whose  fault  is 
that  ?  It's  not  mine.  Who  was  it  made  me  out 
to  be  so  clever;  who  insisted  on  making  a  doc- 
tor of  me,  or  sending  me  to  Trinity?  It  was 
all  of  you.  From  the  time  I  was  a  baby  you 
treated  me  as  if  I  was  something  wonderful, 
and  now  when  you  find  I'm  not  what  you 
thought  I  was  you  kick  me  out — across  the  sea 
to  Canada,  where  you'll  never  hear  of  me 
again.  You  give  me  the  education  of  a  gentle- 
man, lashings  of  money  in  my  pocket,  no  wish 
denied  me,  and  in  the  end  you  tell  me  I'm  to 
be  a  labourer. 


George 

^'s    othcr 
Canada 


There's    other    work     besides     farming    in 


Denis. 
It's  unfair. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  won't  let  you  go,  Denis. 

55 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

Oh,  I'll  go  fast  enough,  never  fear.  We  all 
know  what  George  is  when  he's  made  up  his 
mind  about  a  thing.  He  made  up  his  mind  I 
was  to  go  to  College  to  be  a  doctor,  and  I  went. 
Now  he's  made  up  his  mind  I'm  to  go  to 
Canada,  and  I'll  go.  He's  got  the  purse;  he 
can  do  what  he  likes. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

If  you  weren't  a  fool  you  wouldn't  be  saying 
these  things ;  he  might  do  great  things  for  you 
yet  if  he  had  a  mind  to. 

Denis. 

I'm  asking  no  favours  from  him.  I'll  not 
take  a  shilling  from  him.  I'll  get  enough 
some  other  way  to  take  me  out  of  this;  don't 
be  afraid  you'll  be  bothered  with  me.  I'll  go 
back  to  Dublin  to-morrow. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Denis ! 

Denis. 

I'll  be  free,  anyway,  from  this  to  make  my 
own  life  in  my  own  way.  I'm  tired  of  other 
people  managing  it  for  me. 

56 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

You're  vexed  with  me  now.  Some  day 
you'll  be  very  thankful  to  me. 

Denis. 

I've  no  doubt  I  will.  You're  giving  me  a 
great  opening.  I'm  tremendously  obliged  to 
you  all. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  you  talk  so  bitter. 
And  Delia — what'll  Delia  say  at  all  to  all  this? 

Denis. 

Delia?  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  George  has 
some  plan  in  his  head  for  Delia.  She's  to  go  to 
South  Africa,  I  suppose,  or  maybe  he's  ar- 
ranged to  marry  her  himself. 

George. 

I've  no  wish  to  part  you.  She  can  marry 
you  and  go  to  Canada  if  she's  willing.  I'll  pay 
the  passage  for  the  two  of  you. 

Denis. 

Thank  you  for  nothing.  I'm  asking  no 
money  from  you,  and  I've  no  intention  of  ask- 
ing Delia  to  come  out  and  rough  it  in  Canada. 
She  wasn't  brought  up  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

57 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Peter. 

John  Duffy  would  give  you  money  with  her 
maybe.  Enough  to  set  the  two  of  you  up  in 
Canada. 

Denis. 

I'm  asking  no  favours  from  John  Duffy  or 
from  any  of  you.  I'll  tell  Delia  the  truth;  tell 
her  I'm  being  kicked  out  by  my  family  because 
I'm  good  for  nothing.  I'll  make  an  end  of  the 
whole  thing.  I'll  write  to  Delia  to-night,  this 
very  minute — I'll  go  back  to  Dublin  in  the 
morning;  I'll  not  stay  another  night  here. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

This  is  hard  for  you,  Denis,  but  maybe  it's 
the  best  thing  that  could  happen. 

Denis. 

That's  it,  Aunt  Ellen,  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  for  all  of  us.  Peter  will  go  out  to  you. 
Donough  will  marry  Jane,  Baby  will  go  to 
Dublin;  there'll  be  plenty  of  money  for  every- 
thing. Denis  will  be — well,  it  doesn't  matter 
a  damn  where  Denis  will  be.  He'll  be  out  of 
the  way,  at  any  rate.  Babe,  darling,  get  me  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  an  envelope. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Mv  heart's  broken  between  you  all. 

58 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Kate. 
Don't  take  on  mother. 

[Baby's  brought  hiui  the  paper.] 

Denis. 

Thanks,  Babe ;  you're  a  jewel.  Look  out  for 
yourself  when  you  go  to  DubHn;  all  the  fellows 
in  Skerry's  will  be  mad  after  you.  There's 
something  really  fascinating  about  you. 

[How  bitter  he  is!  Look  at  the  toss  of 
her  head.  They're  watching  him  writing. 
Aunt  Ellen's  got  the  girls  round  her; 
she's  speaking  in  a  lozv  voice  to  them.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

T  don't  think  he  should  write  ihat  to  Delia 
about  his  being  turned  out.  Great  laughing 
the  neighbours  will  be  having  at  us,  and  all  the 
talk  we  made  of  his  cleverness  for  the  last 
twenty  years. 

Kate. 
There's  truth  in  that.  Aunt  Ellen 

Baby. 

I'd  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  on  the  street  for 
the  next  twelvemonth,  and  all  we've  been  blow- 
ing about  him. 
^  59 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Peter. 

There's  that  Httle  loan  I  got  partly  on  the 
good  prospects  of  Mister  Denis. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

If  you'll  take  my  advice  you'll  give  out  that 
he's  gone  out  to  a  good  position  in  Canada.  I 
had  a  brother  there  once,  twenty-five  years  ago. 
He  died  without  a  child.  No  matter.  Can't 
you  say  Denis  has  gone  out  to  his  cousins — that 
they're  in  a  big  way  of  business?  That  will 
save  your  face. 

[/4  great  idea,  sure  enough.] 

Jane. 
You're  a  great  woman  for  schemes,  Aunt. 

George. 

It's  a  good  idea.  We  don't  want  to  be  dis- 
graced out  and  out. 

Baby. 

People  to  laugh  at  me — 'twould  make  me 
mad. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Do  you  hear  what  we're  saying,  Denis? 

60 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

I  do.  It's  nothing  to  me  what  he  I  leave  be- 
hind me.  I  don't  care  if  they  know  the  truth 
about  me.  But  you  can  have  your  own  way 
m  this,  too.  I've  told  her  I'm  off  to  Canada 
in  two  days,  and  we  can't  get  married.  I'll  put 
a  postscript  to  say  I'm  going  out  to  a  big 
position. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

It's  a  pity  you're  so  hasty.  Delia  is  a  good 
match  ;  you  shouldn't  throw  her  away  so  smart. 

[He's  got  the  letter  done.'\ 

Denis. 

There !  Send  Hannah  down  to  Duffy's  with 
it. 

[Jane  goes  to  the  door.] 

Jane. 
Hannah,  come  hero  a  niinule. 

(ii:()U(jE. 

Before  you  send  it,  Denis,  think  agam  over 
what  I've  said.  I  know  you're  fond  of  Delia; 
I  don't  want  to  come  between  ycju.  Marry  her ; 
I'll  send  you  both  to  Canada,  and  I'll  put  a  bit 
of  money  in  your  hand. 

61 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

You've  washed  your  hands  of  me,  George. 
You  and  Deha  have  got  to  take  the  conse- 
quences of  it  as  well  as  I. 

[Here's  Hannah  with  an  egg.] 

Take  that  note  down  to  Duffy's,  Hannah. 

Hannah. 

I  will.  There's  your  egg.  'Tisn't  laid  two 
hours,  and  Mrs.  O'Connell  says  she'll  send  you 
in  one  every  day  as  long  as  you're  here. 

Denis. 

I'll  be  putting  no  strain  on  her  hens, 
Hannah.     I'm  off  to-morrow. 

Hannah. 
To-morrow!  Yerra 

Aunt  Ellen. 

To  Canada  he's  going,  Hannah.  To  a  grand 
position  there  with  his  uncle's  eldest  son. 

Hannah. 

Canada !     For  godness'  sake !        And  is  he 

not  going  doctoring  ? 

62 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

This  is  better  than  doctoring.  A  great  posi- 
tion he'll  have.  You  can  be  off  now.  Tell 
everyone  you  meet  about  Denis. 

Hannah. 

I  will,  to  be  sure.  I'm  delighted,  Mister 
Denis,  things  have  turned  out  so  well  for  you. 
Delia  Duffy  will  be  burning  the  house  down  for 
pure  joy  to-night.  I'll  be  off  as  fast  as  my 
legs  can  carry  me.  {God  knows  that's  not  say- 
ing much.  Still  when  she's  got  a  bit  of  gossip 
she'll  lose  no  time.) 

George. 

You're  feeling  bitter  about  this,  Denis.  I'm 
sorry  for  you.  Will  you  believe  me  saying  I 
think  it's  for  the  best? 

Denis. 

You  don't  care  a  damn  whether  1  believe  you 
or  not.  (That's  cnoxigh  for  George.  He's 
going  out. ) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Your  tea's  cold.  Wail  (ill  I  gel  you  a  hot 
sup.     Will  you  have  a  bit  of  chicken? 

63 


THE  W'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

I  couldn't  eat  anything.  1  wish  you'd  all 
leave  me  alone.  You've  got  all  you  wanted 
from  me.    I'll  be  gone  for  ever  m  the  mornnig. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

You're  beat  out.  You've  a  headache,  may- 
be? 

Denis. 
I  have. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

The  tea  will  do  you  good.  I'll  get  them  to 
make  you  a  piece  of  hot  toast.  Kate  or  Baby, 
or  one  of  you,  run  into  the  kitchen  and  make 
a  piece  of  toast — quick. 

Baby. 

I  think  it's  time  Denis  learned  to  make  his 
own  toast. 

Peter. 
I'm  not  going  to  make  it  for  him  anyway. 

Jane. 

I've  other  things  to  do. 

[Off  with  them  a//. J 
64 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  mind  them.     I'll  make  the  toast  for 
you.     It  will  all  come  right. 


Denis. 

It's    so    unfair — so    unfair;    that's   what    I 
mind. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

It  is,  it  is.     (She's  kneeling  by  the  fire  toast- 
ing bread.) 

Denis. 

It  was  your  fault  first,  mother.     You  made 
me  out  to  be  something  great. 


Mrs.  Geog. 

And  aren't  you?  Is  there  a  lad  anywhere 
as  clever  as  you?  Sure,  hasn't  everyone  the 
same  story  of  your  smartness,  and  they  can't 
all  be  mistaken. 

Denis. 
They  are. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Not  at  all.  You'll  get  what  you  want  in  the 
end.    You'll  see. 

^  65 


THE  W'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

I  want  nothing  at  all  now  except  to  be  let 
alone. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

My  poor  boy.  ...  I  never  teel  as  if  the 
others  were  my  children  the  way  you  are. 

Denis. 
And  I've  been  a  bad  son  to  you. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

You  haven't,  you  haven't.  You've  never 
given  me  a  cross  word.  You  mustn't  go  across 
the  sea  to  Canada.  What  would  I  do  without 
you,  and  what  would  poor  Delia  do? 

Denis. 
Poor  Delia! 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Every  girl  in  the  place  is  wild  about  you. 
They  were  mad  that  you'd  never  look  at  one 
of  them  only  Delia  Duffy.  I  never  thought  she 
was  half  good  enough  for  you;  1  always  hoped 
you'd  marry  a  lady  from  the  city,  for  all  John 
Duffy  has  the  Post  Office  and  is  Chairman  of 
the  District  Council.  .  .  .  But  you'd  have  got 
money  with  her. 

66 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

Well,  that's  all  over  now. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

The  toast  is  just  done.  Hold  it  a  minute 
and  I'll  fetch  the  cup  of  tea.  You  can  sit  there 
and  be  taking  it. 

[Here's  Kate  back.    She  has  a  piece  of 
toast  on  a  plate.] 

Kate. 

I  made  a  piece  of  toast  at  the  fire  upstairs. 

[And  Jane  in  the  other  door  with  an- 
other piece  of  toast.] 

Jane. 

Denis,   will   you Oh,   have   you   been 

making  toast? 

\^And  Hannah's  head  in  at  the  door.] 

Hannah. 

Have  you  the  toasting-fork  there,  ma'am? 
Peter  wants  to  make  a  piece  of  toast  for  Mister 

Denis. 

67 


THE  ll'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

I  want  none  of  your  toast.     You  can  keep 
your  bally  toast. 

[But  he's  taking  the  piece  his  mother 
holds  out  to  him.] 

Curtain. 


68 


Act  II 

[The  same  room  again  later  in  the  even- 
ing and  George  and  Peter  sitting, 
talkifig.  ] 

Peter. 
You  think  I  should  take  it,  then? 

George. 
I  do. 

Peter. 
But  supposing  it  fails? 

George. 

Aunt  Ellen  will  stick  to  it  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  by  that  time  it  will  have  failed  or  succeed- 
ed. If  it's  a  success,  you're  game  ball;  if  it 
fails  you're  no  worse  off  than  you  are  now,  and 
there  will  always  be  foolish,  contrary  people 
starting  them  co-operative  things ;  that  class  is 
as  thick  as  thieves  and  lavish  with  their  money ; 
once   you   get   well    in    with    them   they'll   not 

69 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

desert  you.  Besides,  you  knowing  all  about 
shopkeeping,  you'll  be  able  to  make  things 
easier  for  the  locals.     Do  you  understand  me  ? 


Peter. 

I  do. 

George. 

Them  co-operatives  have  never  succeeded 
yet,  but  if  they  ever  do — 'twould  be  bad  days 
for  us.  I'd  like  to  see  you  there  for  life,  and 
yet  't wouldn't  be  well  to  be  too  successful. 

Peter. 
Ah,  there'll  be  some  sort  of  a  middle  course. 
[With  a  wink.] 

George. 
That's  what's  in  my  mind. 

Peter. 

And  Donough  will  marry  Jane  and  come  in 
here  in  my  place,  and  Baby  will  be  up  in  Dub- 
lin, and  Denis  will  be  off  our  hands.  Faith,  it 
all  fits  together  as  neat  as  a  puzzle. 

George. 

And  you  could  be  giving  an  eye  to  Aunt 
Ellen's  bit  of  land,  and  not  letting  her  play 

70 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

puck  with  it  with  her  contrary  schemes,  and  in 
the  end  she'll  leave  it  to  you,  why  wouldn't 
she?  She'll  forget  Denis  when  the  salt  water's 
between  them. 

Peter. 

He's  been  a  weight  on  us  for  years;  we're 
well  rid  of  him.  But  all  the  same,  I  felt  sorry 
for  the  poor  fellow  to-night. 


George. 

Ah,  he'll  do  first-class  in  Canada,  Sure,  all 
sorts  does  well  out  there.  I'm  only  afraid  of 
the  mother  having  the  life  wore  out  of  me  fret- 
ting after  him. 

Peter. 
She'll  get  over  that  in  time. 

George. 

Well,  she  must.  I'm  not  going  back  on  what 
I  said  about  Denis.     Go  he  must. 

{Here's  their  aunt.'\ 

Aunt  Ellen. 

George,  your  mother  wants  you.  She's 
above  in  her  room. 

71 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
Is  she  after  going  to  bed  ? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

She  is  not;  she  can't  get  this  business  of 
Denis  out  of  her  mind,  the  creature. 

George. 

There's  no  use  in  her  talking  of  it  to  me. 
My  mind  is  made  up;  we're  all  determined. 
Denis  must  go. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Even  so,  a  word  from  you  might  quiet  her. 
Anyhow,  she  won't  take  rest  till  she  sees  you. 

George. 

I'll  go  to  her  so. 

[He's  gone.     'Tisn't  likely  there's  any- 
thing he  can  say  will  quiet  her.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You'd  have  to  pity  her.  Denis  was  always 
her  whiteheaded  boy,  and  this  is  a  blow  to  her. 
Well,  we  must  all  go  through  with  it.  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  are  you  coming  out  to  Kilmurray? 

72 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Peter. 

I'm  after  talking  it  over  with  George;  he 
advises  me  to  go. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He's  right.  You'll  never  regret  it.  I  sup- 
pose you  know  all  about  co-operation? 

Peter. 
Divil  a  bit.     But  I  can  keep  a  shop. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
That's  all  we  want. 

Peter. 

ril  leave  you  and  the  Committee  to  do  the 
co-operating. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You'd  better  come  back  there  with  me  to- 
morrow. The  sooner  you  see  the  Committee 
the  better.  Not  that  there's  a  fear  you  won't 
get  it,  for  I  mentioned  your  name  to  them  and 
they  were  agreeable;  but  it's  best  to  make  sure 
of  them ;  you  never  know  when  they  wouldn't 
turn  round  behind  your  back  and  put  in  an 
ignorant  fellow — a  felk^w  who  couldn't  weigh 
a  pound  of  sugar — just  because  he  was  a  rc- 

73 


THE  irillTBHEADED  BOV 

lation  of  one  of  them.     It's  one  of  the  curses 
of  the  country,  giving  positions  to  relations. 

Peter. 
I  agree  with  you,  Aunt. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

They're  a  jobbing,  ignorant  crowd  out  at 
Kilmurrav.  .  .  .  There's  a  knock.  Who  can 
it  be  this  hour  of  night? 

Peter. 

Hannah's  snoring  this  half-hour.  FU  see 
who  it  is. 

\He's  gone  and  here  he  is  back  and 
John  Duffy  with  him.  John  is  one  of 
the  solidest  men  in  Ballycolman,  Chair- 
man of  the  District  Council,  Chairman  of 
the  Race  Committee,  and  a  member  of 
every  Committee  and  every  League  in  the 
village.  He  has  three  public-houses  and  a 
grocery  business  and  the  Post  Office  and 
a  branch  of  the  National  Bank  once  a 
month,  and  a  trade  in  old  hens  and  eggs 
and  a  terrible  turn-over  in  ttirkeys  at 
Christinas.  .  .  .  Oh,  a  weighty  man. 
....  Yes,  he  buried  the  wife  long  ago; 
he's  no  child  but  Delia.  He's  not  looking 
in  too  pleasant  a  humour.] 
74 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 
Aunt  Ellex. 


Oh,  good  evening,  Air.  Duffy ;  you're  wel- 
come. I  was  wondering  who  the  knock  might 
be. 

Duffy, 

'Tis  late  for  visits,  but  I  sHpped  up  to  see 
George  for  a  minute. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He's  in  the  mother's  room.  Will  you  tell 
him,  Peter? 

[Peter's  gone  to  tell  George.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Will     you     sit     down,     Mr.     Duffy?  .  .  . 
'Twon't  be  long  to  Christmas  now. 

Duffy. 
That's  true. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You're  looking  well.  How's  Delia  these 
times? 

Duffy. 

She's  well  enough.  .She  got  a  great  throw- 
over  to-night. 

75 


THE  U'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Is  that  a  fact? 

Duffy. 
Is  Denis  around? 


Aunt  Ellen. 
He's  not.     He's  gone  to  bed. 


Duffy. 
He's  going  from  you,  I  hear? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He  is  indeed,  poor  boy.  It's  hard  parting 
from  him,  but  since  it's  for  his  advantage  we 
wouldn't  stand  in  his  way. 

[Wouldn't  anyone  believe  her  the  way 
she  says  itt] 

Duffy. 
To  be  sure,  to  be  sure. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  always  said  he  was  too  clever  to  be  a  doc- 
tor. When  you  see  the  ignorant  fellows  that 
are  turned  into  doctors,  you  can't  believe,  Mr. 
Duffy,  that  it  takes  much  wit  to  cut  off  a  man's 
leg  or  to  give  him  a  bottle  of  medicine. 

76 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
There's  something:  in  that. 


'& 


Aunt  Ellen. 

Now  in  Canada  he'll  find  an  opening  suit- 
able to  his  smartness.  A  brother  of  my  own 
went  out  there  forty  years  ago  and  'tis  wonder- 
ful the  way  he  got  on. 

Duffy. 
Is  it  to  his  people  Denis  is  going? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

It  is.  He  left  a  troop  of  sons  and  daughters 
after  him. 

Duffy. 
And  where  do  they  live? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
They?— Oh,  they  live  in  Saint  Paul. 

Duffy. 
I  thought  that  was  in  the  States. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

There's  a  place  of  that  name  in  Canada,  too. 
Do  you  suppfjse  I  wouldn't  know  my  own 
brother's  place? 

77 


THE  U'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am ;  indeed  I  meant 
no  such  thing.     He's  in  business,  I  suppose? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You  may  say  he  is,  then.  By  all  accounts  he 
owns  half  the  town. 

Duffy. 

Do  you  tell  me?  Denis  will  have  a  fine  po- 
sition so. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Oh,  the  best  in  the  world.  Nothing  to  do 
but  superintending  like,  strolling  about  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  making  other  people  work 
and  putting  money  in  the  Bank  all  the  time. 

Duffy. 

Bedad,  that  sounds  a  good  life.  Tell  me, 
what  class  of  business  has  your  brother? 

[That's  a  facer!] 

Aunt  Ellen, 

A  mixed  business,  Mr.  Duffy. 

[Good  woman!] 
78 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
I  see. 

[Here's  Peter  back  with  George.] 

George. 
You  were  wanting  me,  John? 

Duffy. 
I  was. 

George. 

If  it's  the  fertilizer  you're  after,  I  didn't  get 
it  in  yet.  I  have  it  ordered  a  fortnight  or 
more. 

Duffy. 

'Tisn't  that  at  all.  .  .  .  This  is  great  news 
about  Denis. 

George. 
Ay. 

Duffy. 

lie's  ofif  to  Canada? 

George. 
He  is. 

Duffy. 

Hannah  was  blowing  about  a  fine  place  he's 
going  to,  and  your  Aunt  was  saying  the  same 
thing  just  now.     It's  .i  fact,  I  suppose? 

79 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
That's  true. 

Duffy. 
Lashings  of  money  and  nothing  to  do. 

George. 
I  beHeve  so. 

Duffy. 
His  cousins  own  the  town? 

George. 
They  do. 

Duffy. 
'Tis  very  sudden. 

George. 

That's  the  way  things  come,  John.     Only 
this  evening  it  was  settled. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Of  course,  Denis  being  so  clever,  we  always 
looked  for  something  big  to  turn  up  for  him. 

Duffy. 

Delia's  in  a  state  over  it. 

80 


THE  ]VHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

Ah,  she  needn't  be.  Indeed,  we  were  all 
sorry  about  that,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped. 
They  were  only  children,  John,  and  with  Denis 
going  off  now  there  was  no  use  going  on  with 
it.  Delia's  a  nice  little  girl ;  she's  too  good  for 
Denis 

Peter. 
That's  a  fact. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

She'll  take  up  with  someone  who'll  be  a  deal 
more  suitable. 

Duffy. 

They've  been  promised  to  one  another  for 
two  years;  as  soon  as  he'd  be  a  doctor  they 
were  to  be  married,  and  now  in  the  heel  of  the 
hunt  he  gets  a  big  position  in  Canada,  he 
spreads  his  sails  and  away  with  him,  leaving 
her  behind.  Faith,  it  looks  to  me  as  if  you 
thought  she  wasn't  good  enough  for  him. 

[Didn't     I    knozv    he    H'as    near    his 
temper.  \ 

George. 

Indeed,  John,  you're  making  a  mistake. 
That's  not  the  way  with  it  at  all.  It's  the 
other  way  about. 

«  81 


TIIR  U'HITEIIEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

That's  the  way  1  look  at  it,  anyway,  and 
that's  the  way  the  neighbours  will  look  at  it, 

George. 
Sure,  it's  not  cross  about  it  you  are? 

Duffy. 

Oh  no,  not  at  all.  There's  nothing  in  the 
w^ide  world  a  man  likes  better  than  to  have  his 
only  child  trampled  on  like  dirt,  to  be  left 
fooled,  to  be  made  a  mock  of  by  the  country- 
side. Cross  ?  What  would  make  me  cross  ?  I 
never  felt  in  a  pleasanter  temper  than  I  do  this 
minute. 

Peter. 
You're  talking  strange. 

Duffy. 

The  two  of  you  will  hear  stranger  talk  than 
this  before  you've  finished  with  the  Duffy's. 

George. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Duffy, 

I  mean  Denis  marries  Delia,  or  else  .  ,  . 

82 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
He  can't  marry  her. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Put  that  notion  out  of  your  mind,  Mr. 
Duffy. 

Duffy. 

Then  if  he  won't  marry  her,  I  put  the  matter 
into  the  lawyer's  hands  to-morrow.  £1,000 
damages. 

[Oh,  my  God!] 


George. 
John! 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Mr.  Duffy! 

Peter. 
You're  raving! 

Duffy. 

Ay,  you  think  yourselves  great  people,  don't 
you?  \'ou've  a  brother  wIk/s  a  gentleman, 
who  is  much  too  high  up  to  get  married  to  a 
Duffy.  It's  good  enough  for  Delia  to  be 
thrown  aside  like  an  old  shoe  when  the  fancy 
takes  you.  She's  not  good  enough  to  be 
brought   to   Canada,    to    the    fine   place   there 

that  .   .   . 

83 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
John,  wait.     I  .  .  . 


Duffy. 

But  ril  show  you  you've  mistaken  your  man. 
As  long  as  Deha  has  a  father  by  her  she'll  not 
be  treated  that  way.  I'll  show  you!  The 
Duffys  aren't  people  to  be  trampled  on 
so  easy.  I've  power  to  my  back — and  money — 
more  money  than  you  have — and,  by  the  same 
token,  I'll  see  a  lump  of  yours  before  I'm  done 
with  you.  I'll  have  the  smartest  lawyer  in  Ire- 
land on  my  side.  I  got  all  Denis's  letters  off 
Delia  to-night — oh,  there's  no  doubt  of  my 
case.  I'll  beat  you  to  the  wall,  I'll  bleed  you, 
I'll  teach  you  the  way  to  treat  a  decent,  honest, 
poor  girl  who  never  did  you  a  day's  harm  only 
demeaned  herself  mixing  with  low,  sneaking 
people  the  like  of  the  Geoghegans.  Good  night 
to  you. 

George. 

Stop,  for  God's  sake,  Mr.  Duffy.  You 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 


Duffy. 

Faith,  I  do,  only  too  well. 

84 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

'Tisn't  true.  All  that  about  Canada  isn't 
true. 

Duffy. 

Isn't  he  going  there? 

George. 
He  is,  but  not  to  .  .  . 

Duffy. 

That's  enough  about  it. 

[He's  going  out,  but  George  is  holding 
him  back.\ 

George. 

Don't  go.  Look  here,  I'm  telling  you  the 
truth  now,  the  same  as  if  you  were  a  magistrate 
on  the  bench.  He's  going  to  no  situation  there ; 
he's  been  kicked  out  of  this  because  we're 
tired  of  paying  his  bills. 

Duffy. 
Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that? 

George. 

You  must  believe  it.  Aunt  Ellen,  tell  him 
that  what  I'm  saying  is  true. 

85 


THE  W'HiriiHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

It's  true,  every  word  of  it.  I've  no  cousins 
in  Canada,  my  brother  died  unmarried,  Denis 
will  have  to  work  like  a  labourer  in  Canada. 

Peter. 

We're  turning  him  out ;  he's  a  useless,  idle 
fellow. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Delia's  well  rid  of  him;  a  burden  he'd  be 
to  her. 

George. 

She'll  get  a  man  twice  as  good  before  the 
year's  out. 

Peter. 
He's  a  waster. 

George. 
No  sense  at  all. 

Peter. 
A  gambler,  betting  all  day  on  horses. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Cards  and  drink. 

86 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
He  has  mother's  heart  broken 

Peter. 
'Tis  a  great  escape  DeHa's  having. 

George. 

They'd  be  in  the  Union  before  they'd  be  a 
year  married. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
He's  a  disgrace  to  the  family. 

Duffy. 

Well,  what  sort  of  a  fool  do  you  take  me  to 
be  at  all?  Haven't  I  two  eyes  in  my  head? 
Don't  I  know  Denis  since  the  dav  he  was  born? 
Isn't  he  known  to  be  the  cleverest,  smart- 
est ..   . 

George. 

Not  at  all. 

Duffy. 

.  .  .  lad  in  the  countryside.  Didn't  you  tell 
me  yourself  the  way  he  swept  all  before  him  in 
the  College  in  Dublin? 

George. 

'Tisn't  true.     Three  times  he's  af^cr  failing. 

87 


THE  Jl'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

Wasn't  he  going  to  be  set  up  there  in  a  big 
house  ? 

Peter. 
Not  at  all. 

Duffy. 

Wasn't  his  aunt  going  to  leave  him  all  her 
money  ? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
He'll  never  get  a  penny  from  me. 

Duffy. 

And  now  you'd  like  me  to  turn  around  and 
disbelieve  it  all.  Ah,  you're  clever,  but  you're 
not  clever  enough  for  me. 

George. 

You're  making  a  mistake.  To-night  things 
turned  up. 

Duffy. 

They  did ;  I  know  well  they  did.  Canada 
turned  up,  a  big  position  turned  up,  plans  and 
schemes  you  made  to  throw  us  over.  I  see 
your  game.  Tell  me  George,  is  Saint  Paul  the 
name  of  the  place  Denis  is  going  to? 

88 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

No. 

{^Look  at  Duffy  turning  on  the  aunt.] 

Duffy. 

Didn't  I  know  you  were  lying,  ye  old  brazen 
thing  the  way  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  trace  him 
to  bring  him  back  to  marry  my  daughter.  But 
I  don't  care  a  damn  where  he  is  going  to. 
You're  right,  Delia's  well  quit  of  him ;  she's 
well  quit  of  the  whole  troop  of  the  Geoghegans 
— but  I  want  that  £1,000  and  I'll  have  it  too. 

Peter. 

It's  the  truth  we're  telling  you,  Mr.  Duffy. 
The  rest  was  all  lies. 

Duffy. 
I  know  well  it's  liars  you  all  are. 

[Here's  DoxouGii;  he's  excited  like.] 

Do.N'ouGH. 

I  couldn't  go  home  till  I'd  congratulated  you 
about  Denis.  All  the  people  at  the  concert 
were  talking  of  it.  It's  over  railways  he'll  be, 
I'm  told ;  a  sort  of  a  railway  king, 

George. 

Oh,  my  God! 

89 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
Do  you  hear  that? 

DONOUGH. 

George,  my  mind's  made  up;  I'm  going  with 
him.  When  he  has  all  that  power  he'll  be  able 
to  do  something  for  the  man  that's  going  to 
marry  his  sister.  I'm  tired  of  slaving  on  here 
and  no  nearer  marrying  Jane  than  I  was  five 
years  ago.  Now  I'll  have  her  out  to  me  be- 
fore the  autumn.     What  day  is  he  sailing? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Don't  mind  what  the  people  are  saying  Don- 
ough.     There's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it  all. 

DONOUGH. 

Isn't  Denis  going  to  Canada? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
He  is,  but  not  .  .  . 

Donough. 

Well,  then,  what's  to  hinder  me  going  along 
with  him  ?  'Twill  be  a  queer  thing  if  he  doesn't 
contrive  to  get  me  into  a  good  job  out  there. 

90 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
He'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 


Peter. 
Put  the  idea  out  of  your  head. 


Why  so? 


DONOUGH. 


Duffy. 


Listen  here  to  me,  Donough ;  I'll  tell  you 
the  way  it  is.  This  family's  too  high  up  in 
themselves  for  the  like  of  you  or  me.  We're 
not  class  enough  for  them,  do  you  see?  The 
Geoghegans  are  a  great  people,  the  Duffys 
aren't  good  enough  for  them  at  all.  We've 
been  thrown  over ;  Delia's  not  a  fit  match  for 
my  brave  Denis.  You'll  be  the  next  to  go;  it 
couldn't  be  expected  that  Jane  Geoghegan 
would  marry  Donough  Brosnan.  They  have 
plans  of  marrying  Jane  to  a  lord. 

Donough. 
What's  that  you  say? 

George. 

Don't  mind  him,  D(jnough. 

91 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

DONOUGH. 

I  will  mind  him. 

George. 

You  can  marry  Jane  to-morrow  for  all  I 
care.     Duffy's  mad. 

Duffy. 

Mad?  Take  care  what  you're  saying, 
George  Geoghegan.  There's  a  law  against 
slander  and  abuse  as  well  as  against  breaking 
a  promise  of  marriage.  Here's  my  final  word 
to  you  :  Denis  marries  Delia  and  takes  her  with 
him  to  Canada. 

George. 
He  can't. 

Duffy. 

Or  he  finishes  his  course  in  Dublin  and 
marries  her  when  he's  a  doctor,  the  very 
minute  he's  qualified. 

George. 
He  can't. 

Duffy. 
Then  I  bring  an  action.     £1,000  damages. 
You  can  take  your  choice.     I'll  give  you  ten 

92 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

minutes  to  yourselves  to  talk  it  over.  I've  got 
to  go  and  see  Magner  for  a  minute.  I'll  be 
back  for  an  answer.  Mind,  I  mean  every  word 
I  say.  The  marriage  or  an  action.  That's  my 
final  word  to  you,  you  pack  of  schemers ! 

[He's  off — what  a  slam  he  gave  the 
door.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 
He's  a  terrible  man. 

George. 
That's  a  nice  fix  we're  in. 


Peter. 
What  the  divil  can  we  do  now? 

DoN'orc.n. 
I  don't  understand  what  it's  all  about. 

George. 

We're  kicking  IX-nis  (Uit  Ui  Canada  because 
he's  a  useless,  idle,  extravagant  fellow,  and 
Duffy  has  an  idea  that  he's  going  out  to  some 
big  place  there,  and  is  mad  he  won't  marry 
Delia. 

93 


THE  WHITEIlEADIiD  BOY 

DONOUGII. 

Is  that  the  way  it  is  ?  I  never  had  much  be- 
lief in  Denis. 

George. 

I  wish  to  God  you  could  get  Duffy  and  the 
rest  to  be  of  the  same  mind.  There's  no  one 
in  the  village  will  believe  the  truth. 

DONOUGH. 

Sure,  there's  nothing  harder  to  believe  than 
the  truth. 

Peter. 
But  what  are  we  going  to  do? 

George, 

Let  me  think.     My  head's  bursting.     What 

was  it  Dufify  said  ?    Either  marry  her  and  take 

her  to  Canada  or  go  through  with  College,  or 

else  the  breach  of  promise.  ...  I  won't  send 

him  back  to  College ;  I'd  rather  have  the  breach 

— 'twouldn't  cost  me  more  in  the  end.    Maybe 

Denis  might  be  ten  years  in  Dublin  or  twenty 

years  missing  his  examinations  and  spending 

money.     Oh,  where  would  it  all  come  from? 

...  But  £1,000  to  go  to  Dufify,  or  £500  itself 

— we'd  be  ruined ;  we'd  never  get  it  back  from 

the  shop. 

94 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

DONOUGH. 

Yerra,  let  Duffy  bring  the  case  against  Denis 
and  bankrupt  him.    What  matter? 

George. 

Bankrupt  him !  Do  you  think  I'm  the  one 
to  stand  by  and  see  a  Geoghegan  broken  by  a 
Duffy  or  anyone  else?  I'd  sooner  die  in  the 
Union.  There's  but  the  one  thing  for  it. 
Denis  must  marry  her;  he  must  take  her  with 
him  to  Canada. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He'll  do  that  all  right ;  sure  he's  mad  to 
marry  her. 

George. 

Call  him  down  here,  Peter. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
lie's  gone  to  bed  I  think. 

George, 

Pull  him  out  of  bed,  then.  This  must  be 
settled  before  Duffy  comes  back.  He'll  j)ut  the 
case  into  tlic  lawyer's  hands  to-morrow  if  we 
don't. 

Pkteu. 

I'll  call  him      (lie's  (jonc.) 

95 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
It's  a  terrible  upset  we're  in. 

George, 

It  was  all  your  fault  with  your  schemes  for 
saving  the  family's  good  name.  If  we'd  told 
the  truth  from  the  first,  this  wouldn't  be  on  us 
now.     (He's  turning  on  her.) 

Aunt  Ellen. 

That's  a  queer  thing  to  say  to  me,  George. 
Small  respect  you're  showing  me. 

George. 
I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

It  looks  like  it  indeed.  Anyway,  the  truth's 
a  dangerous  thing  to  be  saying  in  a  little  place 
like  Ballycolman. 

DONOUGH. 

It  will  be  all  right.  Denis  will  marry  Delia, 
and  there'll  be  no  more  about  it. 

George. 

I  won't  have  an  easy  minute  till  the  pair  of 
them  are  married  and  gone.    Oh  Donough,  it's 

96 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

an  awful  thing  to  be  head  of  a  family.  Since 
the  father  died  I've  not  had  a  minute's  rest, 
pulled  this  way  and  that  way,  this  one  wanting 
to  get  married,  another  going  into  business, 
Baby  flying  up  to  Dublin,  Denis  doctoring — 
many  a  time  I  wished  I  was  born  an  orphan. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
God  forgive  you. 

George. 

It's  true,  Aunt  Ellen.  Look  at  the  life  I've 
led  between  you  all,  and  no  one  ever  thinking 
maybe  I'd  want  to  get  married,  or  have  a  bit 
of  fun,  or  spend  a  bit  of  money.  For  two  pins 
I'd  throw  the  lot  of  ve  over  to-morrow  and  sail 
away  out  of  this  for  ever. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Yerra,  talk  sense,  George;  that's  no  way  to 
be  behaving. 

George. 

There's  no  escape  for  me.  I'm  caught  like 
an  old  CfAv  with  her  head  in  a  stall. 

{Here's  Peter  back  with  Denis.     // 
was  no  lie  saying  he  was  in  bed,  hole  at 
his  striped  pyjanias  and  his  elegant  dress- 
ing gown.  ] 
7  97 


THE  WHITEHEADRD  BOY 

Denis. 

What  do  you  want  me  for?  Haven't  you 
bothered  me  enou.s:h  this  evening  without  haul- 
ing me  out  of  bed  ? 

George. 

Denis,  old  Duffy  has  been  here  raging  mad. 
He  threatens  a  breach  of  promise  unless  you 
marry  Delia.  You'll  have  to  do  it.  You'll 
have  to  marry  her  at  once. 

Denis. 
What?    Marry  Delia? 

George. 
Yes,  and  take  her  to  Canada  along  with  you. 

Denis. 
Oh! 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I  knew  you'd  be  delighted.     'Twas  breaking 
your  heart  parting  from  her. 

Denis. 
And  what  are  we  to  live  on  in  Canada? 

George. 

You'll  find  plenty  to  live  on. 

98 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

A  man's  lost  without  a  woman  out  there, 
they  say.  You'd  read  on  the  papers  the  great 
scarcity  of  women  there  is  in  Canada. 

Peter. 
That's  so ;  she'll  be  a  great  addition  to  you. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Father  Murphy  would  marry  you  to-morrow 
when  he  knows  the  hurry  you're  in. 

Denis, 

I  see.  .  .  .  Listen  here  to  me.  Haven't  I 
agreed  to  everything  you've  planned  for  me  all 
my  life  through.  To-night  I  agreed  to  go  to 
Canada  because  it's  your  wish ;  I  agreed  to 
break  with  Delia.  Now  you  want  me  to  take 
Delia  off  to  Canada,  without  a  position,  with- 
out a  place  to  go  to,  with  a  few  pounds  in  my 
pocket  that  wouldn't  keep  us  for  a  month.  Put 
the  idea  out  of  your  head;  Pll  not  do  it. 
There's  things  Pll  submit  to  myself,  but  I 
won't  ask  Delia  to  .share  them. 

George. 

Do  y«ni  mean  tcj  tell  me  y<ju  (liHi't  want  to 
miirry  Delia?     Vuu  don't  care  about  her? 

99 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

I  do  care  for  her.  That's  why  I  won't  marry 
her. 

George, 

That's  crazy  talk.  You'll  do  all  right  in 
Canada. 

Peter. 

You  won't  be  there  a  week  before  you'll  have 
a  big  position. 

DONOUGH. 

You're  sure  to  do  fine. 

George. 
A  clever  lad  like  you  will  get  on  fast. 

Denis. 

You  hadn't  much  opinion  of  my  cleverness 
an  hour  ago.  I'll  have  to  rough  it  and  take  my 
chance  with  all  the  others,  and  as  soon  as  I've 
made  a  place  for  myself  I'll  marry  Delia;  but 
I'll  not  ask  her  to  share  the  roughness  and  pov- 
erty you're  sending  me  out  to. 

George. 

Denis,  don't  turn  on  us  like  this. 

100 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

You  turned  on  me  bitterly  to-night,  George. 
You've  kicked  me  out,  you've  wrecked  my  life, 
you've  made  me  give  up  Delia. 

George. 
But  I  want  you  to  marry  her  now. 

Denis. 
And  I  won't.     You  know  why. 

George. 
I'd  give  you  a  few  pounds  going  to  Canada. 

Denis. 
I  won't  take  them. 


George. 
If  you  went  back  to  Collcge- 


Denis. 
I  won't  go  back  to  College. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

In  the  name  of  God,  what  do  you  want? 

101 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

I  want  to  be  let  make  my  own  life  in  my  own 
way.  I  want  to  be  let  alone  and  not  bothered. 
{He's  going  towards  tJic  door.) 

George. 
Where  are  you  off  to  ? 

Denis. 
To  bed,  of  course — and  to  Canada. 

George. 
Will  you  marry  Delia? 

Denis. 

No.     {And  lie's  gone.) 

Donough. 

Wait — Denis {He's  gone  after  him.) 

[Poor  George.      You'd  have   to   pity 
him.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

And  DufTy  will  be  here  in  a  minute  for  his 
answer. 

Peter. 

Well,  it's  the  breach  of  promise  now,  and  no 

mistake. 

102 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George 
We're  ruined,  we're  ruined! 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Yerra,  not  at  all.  Maybe  when  the  fit  of 
anger  passes  John  Duffy  will  think  better  of 
what  he  said  to-night.  But  we  must  stand  up 
to  him  boldly;  don't  let  on  we're  afraid  of 
him. 

Peter. 

Maybe  he'd  come  to  terms. 

George. 

I  wouldn't  demean  myself  making  terms 
with  him.  Let  him  bring  us  into  the  Courts. 
I'll  face  him;  I'll  not  have  it  said  I  was  afraid 
of  him. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
That's  right. 

George. 
A  Geoghegan's  as  good  as  a  Duffy  any  day. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

And  better. 

f  There's  a  knock.  \ 

Glury  be  to  God !  ihcTf  he  is. 

103 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Peter. 

I  suppose  I'll  have  to  let  him  in.  'Twouldn't 
do  to  pretend  we're  all  gone  to  bed. 

George. 

I'm  afraid  of  no  man.  Open  the  door. 
'Tis  terrible,  oh,  'tis  terrible!  Why  did  I  ever 
open  my  lips  to-night  about  Denis?  .  .  .  I'm 
wondering  .  .  .  I'm  wondering,  Aunt,  if  you 
spoke  to  Dufify  yourself  to-night?  You  used 
to  be  good  friends  long  ago,  I've  heard  it  said. 
I  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

Aunt  Ellen. 

To  be  sure  I'll  speak  to  him;  a  woman  can 
often  come  around  a  man.     Ye  only  heat  him. 

George. 

I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  compromises 
and  settlements,  and  it's  no  surrender,  as  they 
say  in  Derry,  but — but — do  your  best  for  me. 
Whisht!  He's  coming.  I'll  be  up  to  speak  to 
the  mother. 

[And  he  slips  out  one  door  as  Peter 
and  Duffy  come  in  the  other.] 

Duffy. 

Well,  ma'am,  I'm  back.  Where  has  George 
gone  to? 

104 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

He  slipped  up  to  speak  to  his  mother.  Peter, 
go  and  look  for  him. 

[Isn't  sJie  cute  the  way  she  got  rid  of 
Peter?] 

Won't  you  sit  down? 

Duffy. 

I'd  sooner  stand.  Two  minutes  will  give  me 
my  answer,  I  suppose. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Take  it  easy  while  you  have  a  chance.  .  .  . 
John  Duffy,  you're  a  clever  man;  I  don't  know 
a  cleverer. 

Duffy. 
I'm  obliged  for  your  good  opinion,  ma'am. 
[How  stiff  he  is.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

That  story  of  Denis  being  good  for  nothing 
is  true,  but  it  suits  you  not  to  believe  it,  and 
you're  right.     I'd  do  the  same  in  your  case. 

DuiFY. 

You  would  ? 

105 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  would  so.  Oh,  I  always  gave  in  you  were 
one  of  the  smartest  men  in  the  country.  ,  .  . 
You're  looking  to  getting  a  deal  of  money  out 
of  this  action? 

Duffy. 
I  am. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  wonder  will  you.  They're  queer,  chancey, 
uncertain  things,  breach  of  promise  cases. 
Great  expense,  a  troop  of  lawyers,  terrible 
harrying  in  the  witness-box  and  maybe  twenty 
pounds  at  the  end  of  it  all,  or  the  case  dis- 
missed. And  Delia  such  a  nervous  little  girl, 
I  wonder  you'd  like  to  drag  her  through  the 
Courts. 

Duffy. 

Don't  be  afraid  for  Delia  ma'am.  A  thou- 
sand pounds  will  cover  a  deal  of  blushes. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

A  thousand  pounds !  You'll  never  see  the 
quarter  of  it,  no,  nor  a  hundred  pounds.  It's  the 
foolish  people  who  go  looking  for  money  in  a 
breach  of  promise  case.  The  wise  ones  settle 
it  up  between  themselves — and  you  were  never 
a  foolish  man,  Mr.  Duffy. 

106 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

I'm  foolish  enough,  anyway,  not  to  let  my 
name  be  trampled  m  tlie  dirt.  It  doesn't  suit 
me  to  have  Delia  treated  as  if  she  wasn't  good 
enough  for  a  Geoghegan. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

'Tis  a  pity.  She'll  hardly  get  married  so. 
The  lads  are  shy  of  having  anything  to  say 
to  a  girl  was  in  a  breach  of  promise  case 
— afraid  they'd  be  the  ne.xt  to  be  hauled  up. 
.  .  .  What  good  will  that  do  either  of  you? 
A  little  bit  of  money  now  slipped  into  your 
hand  without  bother  or  lawyers  would  be  more 
value  to  you.  A  clever  man  would  settle  the 
whole  thing  for  fifty  pounds. 

Duffy. 
Would  he  indeed  ? 

Aunt  Iu.lkn. 

You  know  well  the  (ieoghcgans  are  a  weak 
family.  If  you  got  a  couple  of  hundred  pcninds 
damages  itself,  who  knows  would  you  ever  be 
paid?  But  it  doesn't  reflect  well  on  me  to  have 
my  nephews  dragged  into  Court.  Come,  Mr. 
DufTy,  if  1  gave  you  fifty  pounds  would  you 
withdraw  the  case? 

107 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

I've  got  my  senses  still,  thank  God.     Fifty 
pounds?     Keep  it. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

That's  not  a  civil  way  to  be  answering  me — 
and  yet  we  were  good  friends  once — John, 

Duffy. 
We  were. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  often  think  of  those  old  days — ah,  I 
suppose  you've  forgotten  them  long  ago.  But 
we  were  good  friends. 

Duffy. 

'Twasn't  my  fault  we  weren't  closer  than 
friends. 

[After  all,  he's  sitting  down  and  near 
her  too.\ 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  remember.  Those  days  are  gone  long  ago. 
.  .  .  You'd  have  given  me  anything  I  asked 
then. 

Duffy. 

I  would. 

108 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Do  you  remember  the  day  you  walked  twelve 
miles  to  get  a  red  ribbon  I'd  set  my  mind  on 
having  for  the  races  ? 

Duffy. 
I  do. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

And  now  I'm  offering  you  fifty  pounds,  and 
you  throw  it  back  in  my  face  as  if  I  was  an 
old  hen- woman  at  a  fair. 

Duffy. 
Fifty  pounds  is  no  money  at  all. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Sixty,  then  .  .  .  seventy  .  .  .  Ah,  John, 
you  couldn't  refuse  mc.  .  .  .  for  the  sake  of 
old  times  .   . 

Duffy. 

A  lot  your  talking  of  old  times.  Look  here, 
Ellen,  arc  you  in  earnest?  Do  you  want  the 
case  stf>pj)cd? 

Aunt  Ellen, 

I  do  so. 

109 


THE  U'lIITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
Then  there's  a  way  you  can  do  it. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Tell  it  to  me. 

Duffy. 

You  can  do  what  I  asked  you  to  do  when 
we  were  boy  and  girl  together. 

Aunt  Ellen. 


Mr.  Duffy 


Duffy. 

Why  not  ?  Give  me  a  hundred  pounds  down, 
and  promise  me  you'll  marry  me  before  Shrove, 
and  I'll  let  Denis  and  the  Geoghegans  go  to  the 
divil. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I  could  never  do  it. 

Duffy. 

You  were  near  doing  it  fifteen  years  ago, 
after  I  buried  the  wife. 

Aunt  Ellen. 


I've  lived  my  own  life  always,  I'm  too  old 

[  fre 
110 


to  change.     I  wanted  freedom.     I  wanted  to 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

live  like  the  birds,  I  wanted  to  do  what  I  pleased 
with  my  own  money. 

Duffy. 

You've  had  your  freedom,  and  what  have 
you  made  out  of  it?  Nothing  at  all.  You've 
run  after  crazy  schemes,  goats  and  the  like; 
your  farm  is  gone  to  waste ;  you're  getting  on 
in  years,  soon  you'll  be  an  old  woman,  Ellen, 
with  no  one  to  look  after  you,  only  relations 
craving  for  your  money.  You'd  better  have 
me;  I'll  take  care  of  you,  I'll  look  after  you, 
you'll  have  all  the  freedom  you  want.  When 
you  were  a  girl,  Ellen,  you  were  too  proud  to 
look  at  me,  and  I  married  Honora  Reilly  to 
spite  you.  After  she  died  on  me  I  asked  you 
again,  but  you  wouldn't  have  me.  You're  the 
only  woman  I  ever  wanted.  You  made  me  mad 
to-night  with  your  talk  of  old  times.  You  must 
marry  me,  you  m.ust !  Never  will  you  regret 
it  .   .  . 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  couldn't.  J(jhn.  I'm  old.  I'd  like  to  be 
free. 

Duffy. 

Gof)d-night,  so. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Why  are  you  going? 

Ill 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
What  use  is  there  in  me  staying? 

Aunt  Ellen 
But  what  about  the  case? 

Duffy. 
I'll  see  the  lawyer  in  the  morning. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You're  a  hard  man.     You  always  get  what 
you  want. 

Duffy. 

I  didn't  get  the  one  thing  I  wanted  in  all  the 
world. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

If  I  gave  you  a  hundred  pounds  without  the 
promise  ? 

Duffy. 
'Twouldn't  do  me 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Why  do  you  want  to  marry  me? 

Duffy. 

Contrariness,  I  suppose. 

{He's  hissed  her,  glory  be  to  God!'\ 
112 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Stop,  John!  You  should  be  ashamed  of 
yourself. 

Duffy. 
You'll  have  me.    I  see  you  will. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
You're  taking  a  lot  for  granted. 

Duffy. 

I'm  taking  you,  anyway.  (He's  kissed  her 
again!) 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You're  a  terrible  man. 

Duffy. 

Why  the  divil  didn't  you  let  me  do  that  thirty 
years  ago,  when  we  were  boy  and  girl  together? 
I  made  an  offer  at  it  one  time,  and  you  slapped 
me  across  the  face. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
It's  what  I'd  like  to  do  to  you  this  minute. 

Duffy. 

You  may  then.     (Look  at  him  sticking  his 

face  out  to  her.) 

•  113 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Get  along  with  you! 

Duffy. 

Gripes !  I'd  like  to  get  drunk,  I'd  like  to  pull 
the  house  down,  I'd  like  to  go  bawling  singing 
through  the  streets  of  Ballycolman! 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  hope  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  a  re- 
spectable man  like  you,  with  a  grown  daughter 
and  a  wife  interred. 


Duffy. 

Don't  remind  me  of  her.     I'm  twenty  years 
old — not  a  minute  more. 


Aunt  Ellen. 

If  you  keep  shouting  like  that  you'll  have 
George  down. 

Duffy. 

Faith,  that  reminds  me  .  .   .  I'll  draw  up  a 
paper  and  you  can  sign  it.     {He's  always  an 

eye  to  business.) 

114 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
What  are  you  asking  me  to  sign? 

Duffy 

A  promise  to  pay  me  a  hundred  pounds 
down,  and  that  you'll  marry  me  before  Shrove 
provided  I  drop  the  case  against  Denis  .  .  . 
Have  you  your  cheque-book  handy? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
It's  here  in  my  bag. 

Duffy. 

Make  out  a  cheque  so  for  me  for  a  hundred 
pounds. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
It's  a  whip  of  money. 

Duffy. 

Sure,  it's  not  going  to  pass  out  of  the  family. 
I'll  spend  it  on  stocking  the  farm. 

Aunt  1'".i,i.kn. 

You're  a  terrible  man  ...  1  suppose  you 
must  have  your  way.  {She's  7vritin(/  hi))i  a 
cheque,  it  must  he  a  fact  that  she's  in  love  vcith 
him. ) 

115 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

Sign  there,  now, 

[She's  doing  that  too.  He's  got  the 
cheque  and  the  paper  signed  and  into  his 
breast  pocket  they  go.^ 

Aunt  Ellen. 

For  the  love  of  goodness  don't  breathe  a 
word  of  this  to  the  Geoghegans.  They'd  have 
my  life  for  making  terms  with  you.  I'll  find 
my  own  way  later  of  telling  them  about  the 
marriage. 

Duffy. 

I'll  not  open  my  lips.  And  it  would  suit  me 
better  if  they  thought  I  withdrew  the  case  of 
my  own  free  will.  Isn't  it  like  a  story  on  the 
pictures,  Ellen,  the  way  you  and  I  have  come 
together  at  the  end  of  all.  {More  love-making. 
Look  at  his  arm  around  her  waist.) 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Leave  go  of  me;  there's  someone  commg. 

[It's  George,  and  his  Aunt's  slipped 
out.    She's  all  in  a  flutter  and  no  wonder.] 

George. 

I'm  sorry  for  leaving  you  so  long,  Mr. 
Duflfy.     I  was  speaking  to  my  mother  and  that 

116 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

young  rascal  of  a  brother  of  mine.  It's  no  use 
trying  to  make  him  see  reason ;  you  might  as 
well  be  talking  to  a  deaf  man. 


Duffy. 
Is  that  so  ? 

George. 
My  aunt  was  speaking  to  you  ? 

Duffy. 

She  was. 

George. 

I  hope  you're  feeling  in  a  more  reasonable 
way? 

Duffy. 
Oh.  I've  reason  (m  my  side. 

George. 

There's  no  use  cx[)ccting  Denis  to  marry 
Delia;  he'll  not  do  it.  What  we've  got  to  do, 
Mr.  Duffy,  is  to  settle  our  little  difference  the 
best  way  we  can. 

Duffy. 

That's  a  fact. 

117 


THE  VVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

I'm  glad  to  see  you  taking  that  view.  What 
use  is  there  going  into  Court?  Five  minutes 
friendly  talk  is  better  than  all  the  lawyers  in 
the  Four  Courts  .  .  .  Come,  John,  we  were 
always  good  friends — what  will  you  take  to 
drop  the  case? 

Duffy. 

To  ,  .  .  ?  Five  hundred  pounds.  {Teh! 
Teh!) 

George. 
I  mean  in  earnest. 

Duffy. 
I'm  speaking  in  earnest. 

George. 
I'll  give  you  two  hundred. 

Duffy. 

Put  your  hand  there.  There's  one  condition 
I  make :  not  one  word  of  this  to  your  family, 
or  anyone.  I'd  rather  have  it  thought  that  I 
withdrew  the  case  myself. 

George. 

It  will  suit  me,  too,  to  be  quiet  about  this. 
The  family  would  be  mad  with  me  for  going 

118 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

behind  their  backs.     My  aunt  was  all  for  fight- 
ing you  to  the  bitter  end. 

Duffy, 
Was  she  indeed? 

George. 

Don't  mind  a  word  she  was  saying;  she's  a 
cranky  old  schemer. 

Duffy. 

Would  you  believe  me  telling  you  she  came 
near  striking  me  to-night? 

George. 

She  did?  Don't  mind  her.  John;  she  didn't 
mean  a  word  she  said. 

Duffy. 

Faith,  there's  things  .she  said  t<j-niglit  I'll 
hold  her  accountable  for  .  .  .  Tell  me,  when 
will  you  let  mc  have  the  money? 

George. 

I'll  write  a  letter  to  y(»u  to-night  iiroiiiising 
to  pay  it  in  six  months'  time,  provided  you 
don't  bring  up  the  case.  I'll  have  lo  look  about 
for  the  HKjney. 

W) 


THE  IVHITEIIEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

That'll  do  me.  But  if  I  haven't  the  letter  in 
the  morning  I'll  start  with  the  case. 

George. 
Oh,  you'll  have  it,  never  fear. 

[Here's  poor  Mrs.  Geoghegan.] 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Is  that  Mr.  Duffy's  voice? 

Duffy. 
Good-night  to  you  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Is  it  true  what  I  hear  that  you're  making  a 
set  against  my  poor  Denis,  that  you're  going  to 
bring  him  into  the  Courts? 

Duffy. 
That's  so. 

George. 

Don't  go  into  it  now,  mother.  I've  been 
talking  it  over  with  Mr.  Duffy.  By  to-morrow 
morning  he's  likely  to  see  matters  in  a  more 

reasonable  way. 

120 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
I'm  a  generous  man,  ma'am.      {Yoii  are!) 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  know  you  are.  I'll  say  no  more,  only 
leave  it  to  God  and  yourself  .  .  .  Would  you 
oblige  me  by  taking  a  note  down  to  Delia? 

Duffy. 
Certainly,  ma'am. 

George. 

What's  that,  mother? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Only  a  letter  of  good-bye  from  my  poor 
Denis.  There's  a  note  for  yourself,  too,  Mr. 
Duffy. 

[.S7a''.y  half-u'hispcrin(j,  she  doesn't 
want  George  to  hear,  but  he's  writing  the 
note  to  Duffy  in  the  corner  of  the  room.] 

Duffy. 

Thank  you,  ma'aiii.  {It's  a  thick  letter;  lie 
can't  help  himself  from  opening  it.) 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Arc  y(;u  going  to  ]>v(\,  George? 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

I  have  to  write  one  letter  first. 

[Look  what  Duffy's  pulling  out  of  the 
envelope.      Notes!      Bank  notes .'] 

Duffy. 
.  .  .  May  the  divil  .  ,  . 

Mrs.  Geog. 

What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Duffy?  {She's 
afraid  George  will  notice  and  her  finger's  on 
her  lips. ) 

Duffy, 

Oh,  nothing  at  all,  ma'am,  nothing  at  all. 
I'll  be  going. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
I  hope  business  is  good  by  you  these  times? 

Duffy. 

Business?  Oh,  business,  ma'am  is  good; 
never  better,  never  better.  Well,  be  the  .  .  . 
Good-night  to  you  both. 

[He's  gone.  Well,  well,  such  strategy 
and  manoeuvring — sucJi  lying  as  you 
might  call  it.^ 

Curtain. 

122 


Act  III 

[The  scene  is  the  same  hut  it's  morning 
and  Baby  singing  at  the  piano  .  .  .  Yes, 
a  lovely  voice,  'twos  the  nuns  taught  her. 
.  .  .  What's  that  slie's  singing f  "Because 
God  Made  you  Mine,"  one  of  them  relig- 
ious songs  I  suppose.  Look  at  poor  Kate 
dusting  the  room.    She's  no  singer.] 

Kate. 

That's  lovely,  Baby.  You've  a  ^reat  turn  for 
music. 

Baby. 

I  have,  then.  I  love  them  passionate  songs. 
There's  some  like  comics,  but  give  me  a  song 
with  passirin  in  it.  It  goes  through  mc  like- 
I  suppose  I'm  queer. 

Kate. 

Why  wouldn't  you  like  them?  Myself.  I 
could  never  tell  one  tune  from  another,  but  I'd 
listen  to  you  all  day. 

123 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Baby. 

Whisper  here,  Kate.  I  bad  a  letter  from 
Maggie  Clancy  this  morning,  from  Dublin. 
She  wants  me  to  go  up  to  her  before  Christmas. 

Kate. 
And  will  you? 

Baby. 

I  will  so.  Then  I'll  be  able  to  start  at  the 
classes  the  very  minute  Christmas  is  over. 

Kate. 
Where'll  you  get  the  money? 

Baby. 

George  got  twenty  pound  for  sheep  yester- 
day; the  money's  upstairs.  He's  promised  it 
to  me ;  and  maybe  I  could  coax  a  few  pounds 
out  of  mother. 

Kate. 
I  suppose  you're  longing  to  be  off. 

Baby. 

God  knows  there's  wings  in  my  heart  to  be 
gone  out  of  this.  I  could  never  stay  on  here 
the  way  you  did,  never  seeing  a  bit  of  life  or 

124 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

having  a  chance  .   .   .  Are  you  sorry  you  didn't 
get  married  that  time? 

Kate. 

Oh,  Babe,  often  I  he  awake  thinking  of  it. 
Not  that  we  were  such  friends;  twice  only  I 
saw  him;  but  he  was  a  big,  powerful,  hairy 
man,  and  to  have  a  place  of  my  own  and  not  to 
be  depending  always  on  other  people — even 
though  they're  your  own  family. 

Baby. 

I  know,  I  know;  'tis  hard  on  you.  Maybe 
you'll  get  a  chance  of  marrying  again. 

Kate. 

Yerra,  no;  I'm  too  old.  Ah,  whcre's  the  use 
in  talking  of  it? 

[Here's  the  mother. \ 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Have  cither  of  you  seen  Denis? 

liAHV. 

We  didn't. 

Kate. 

I  gave  him  a  bit  of  breakfast  very  early — 
'twasn't  more  than  half-seven,  I  think,  and  he 
went  out  and  I  didn't  lay  eyes  on  him  since. 

125 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

And  now  it's  close  on  twelve  o'clock !  Oh, 
Kate,  do  you  think  is  there  anything  after 
happening  to  him? 

Kate. 
Yerra,  what  would  happen  to  him? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

What  mightn't  happen  after  all  the  work 
there  was  last  night?  Shipped  off  to  Canada, 
parted  from  the  girl  he  loves,  many  a  man  has 
thrown  himself  into  the  river  for  less. 

Kate. 

Ah,  not  at  all. 

Baby. 

There  was  a  grand  song  I  used  to  sing  one 
time  about  a  girl  drowned  herself  for  love,  but 
I've  never  had  a  song  about  a  man  destroying 
himself  for  a  girl.  Anyway,  Denis  is  the  sort 
takes  good  care  of  himself.  You  needn't  fret 
about  him. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

God  grant  you're  right.  But  all  the  same 
I  wish  you'd  walk  up  street  and  see  is  there  ere 
a  sign  of  him. 

126 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Baby. 

I  might  do  that.  Listen  here,  mother.  I'm 
off  to  DubHn  in  a  day  or  two. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
You  are? 

Baby. 

I'll  want  clothes  and  the  like,  going  to 
Dublin.  I  suppose  you  won't  grudge  giving  me 
a  bit  of  money? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Money?     Where  would   1  get  money? 

Kate. 

Sure,  the  child  would  want  a  couple  of 
pounds  anyway. 

Baby. 

There's  no  need  to  be  saving  it  for  Denis 
any  longer. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I  see  what's  in  your  mind  the  same  as  if  I 
was  sitting  inside  yr)u.  You've  grudged 
Denis  every  penny  he  ever  got.  The  poor  boy, 
he's  no  friend  in  the  world  but  myself.  May- 
be he's  lying  cold  and  dead  now  by  reason  of 

127 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

the  way  he's  been  treated  in  this  house  by  his 
own  flesh  and  blood,  but  that's  nothing  at  all  to 
you  so  long  as  you  can  skeet  out  of  this  to 
Dublin.  All  his  life  it's  been  the  same  story: 
hindered  at  every  turn,  denied  any  little  thing 
he  had  set  his  heart  on,  and  for  all  that  the 
cleverest  of  you  all.  I  haven't  got  any  money, 
and  if  I  had  it  isn't  to  you  I'd  give  it. 

\^And  with  that,  she's  gone.] 


Baby 

)ss  I'd 
notion  of  us  denying  Denis  anything 


If  I  wasn't  so  cross  I'd  want  to  laugh  at  the 


Kate. 

Well,  we  all  treated  him  hardly  enough  last 
night. 

Baby. 

I  believe  you're  soft  on  him  still.  I  believe 
we  all  are  in  our  hearts,  only  we  daren't  let 
on. 

[Here's  George.] 

George. 

Are  you  there,  Baby?  Did  you  take  the 
money  ? 

Baby. 

I  did  not.    Where  is  it? 

128 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

In  my  box.  At  least  it  was;  it's  not  there 
now. 

Baby. 

Do  you  mean  it's  stolen? 

George. 

Ah,  who'd  steal  it?  I  must  have  put  it  in 
some  other  place.  But  it's  queer.  I'm  certain 
it  was  there  I  put  it.     I'll  have  another  look. 

[He's  gone  again.    Aren't  they  a  worry 
to  him  the  whole  flock  of  them.] 

Baby. 

'Twould  be  a  nice  thing  if.  after  all,  the 
money  was  gone. 

Kate. 

George  brought  it  down  to  the  shop  maybe. 

[Jane's  coming  in  now  and  a  paper  in 
her  hand.  J 

Jane. 

You're  after  vexing  llic  inolhcr  with  your 
talk  of  going  lu  Dublin. 
•  129 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Baby. 

Why  should  it  vex  her?  She  was  wild  for 
Denis  to  go,  and  now  she's  mad  with  me  for 
following  his  example. 

Jane. 

Of  course  a  boy  is  different  .  .  .  You've 
your  mind  made  up? 

Baby. 
I'm  off  a  Monday,  if  I  can  get  the  money. 

Jane. 

Monday!  I  wish  you'd  wait  and  see  me 
married.  I  ran  across  to  Peg  Turpin's  this 
morning  for  a  minute.  She  lent  me  this.  Look 
here;  it's  full  of  the  queerest,  grandest  things 
ever  you  saw. 

Baby. 
Is  it  Weldon's  you  have? 

Jane. 

No.  A  better  paper — V  o  g  u  e.  Peg's  sister 
sent  it  her  from  Dublin. 

[Teh,  tch!    Look  at  them  all  round  it 
like  wasps  round  a  jam-pot.] 

What  would  you  think  of  that  one? 

130 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Baby. 
To  be  married  in? 

Jane. 
Yes. 

Kate. 

Wouldn't  you  feel  ashamed-like  walking  up 
the  chapel  in  it  ? 

Jane. 
I  would  not. 

Baby. 

It's  elegant,  elegant!  That  now  with  tan 
shoes  and  white  gloves — only  I  don't  like  the 
hat.  'Tis  too  quiet  for  a  wedding.  You  should 
have  something  flashier — a  big  feather,  or  one 
of  them  scarlet  seagulls. 

Kate. 
For  God's  sake  look  over  the  page. 

r.ABV. 
Well,  of  all  thf  .   .   .    ! 

Jane. 

It's   extraordinary    the   things   they   put    in 

those  fashion  papers. 

131 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Kate. 
I'd  drop  dead  if  I  had  that  on  me. 

Baby. 

It's  not  so  outlandish  when  you've  looked 
at  it  for  a  while.  "This  simple,  girlish  frock" 
— that's  what's  written  under  it.  It  should 
suit  me,  so.     Would  you  fancy  me  in  it? 

Kate. 

You'd  look  lovely  in  anything,  Babe.  But 
I'd  be  in  dread  Father  Murphy  would  speak  of 
it  from  the  altar  if  you  paraded  Ballycolman 
in  that  rig-out. 

Baby. 

Do  you  think  I'd  waste  it  on  Ballycolman? 
It's  in  Dublin  I'd  wear  it. 

Jane. 

There's  a  blouse  below  at  Peg's  I've  set  my 
heart  on.  'Tis  lace  from  here  to  here,  stripes 
of  green  velvet,  gold  buttons — oh,  'tis  gor- 
geous ! 

[Here's  Aunt  Ellen.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Is  there  no  sign  of  Denis? 

132 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Jane. 

He's  not  been  here.  I  hope  to  goodness 
nothing's  happened  to  him. 

Baby. 

You're  as  bad  as  mother.  She  has  him  killed 
and  buried  .  .  .  Look,  Aunt,  what  would 
you  think  of  me  in  that? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Show  .  .  .  Wisha,  Babe,  you'd  never  dis- 
grace us  going  about  like  that  I 

Baby. 

It's  elegant.  And  Jane  has  a  lovely  one  here 
picked  for  her  wedding. 

AuxT  Ellen. 
Are  there  wedding  dresses  there  ?    Show  me. 

Babv. 

I  believe  Aunt  ICllen  is  thinking  of  getting 
married ! 

{Listen  til  tlh'))i  (ill  lauijJiing.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 

How  smart  you  are!  .  .  .  W  hat  about  that 
one,  girls?  .Supposing — supposing  I  was  get- 
ting married. 

133 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Baby. 

Sure,  that's  a  opera  cloak,  Aunt. 

[Look  at  Duffy  coming  in.    He's  look- 
ing pleased  with   himself.] 

Duffy. 
Good-morning  to  you. 

Baby. 
Good-morning,  Mr.  Duffy. 

Jane. 
Good-morning,  Mr.  Duffy. 

Kate. 
Good-morning,  Mr.  Duffy. 

Duffy. 
Good-morning,  Ellen.     I  hope  you're  good. 

Aunt  Ellen, 
I  am,  thank  you. 

Duffy. 

Were  you  thinking  over  what  I  said  to  you 
last  night? 

134 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  never  thought  of  it 
since. 

\^God  forcjiz'c  her!] 

Duffy. 
You  didn't? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Never  once. 

Baby. 

Her  mind's  full  of  the  one  thing  only  at  the 
present  minute,  Mr.  Duffy — dresses,  wedding 
dresses,  no  less.  It's  my  belief  she's  going  to 
get  married  on  the  sly. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Hold  your  tongue. 

Duffy. 

Wedding  dresses?  Is  that  what  you're  at? 
Oh,  that's  all  right  ...  I  lowever,  I  didn't 
come  here  to  talk  the  fashions;  I  wanted  to  see 
George  for  a  minute. 

Kati:. 

He's  above.     I'll  tall  him. 

135 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Jane. 

Come  on  across  to  Peg's,  Babe,  till  you  see 
the  blouse  I  was  telling  you  about. 

{The  three  of  tJieni  are  off  with  tJieni- 
selves.  They'll  spend  the  rest  of  the 
morning  talking  fashions  at  Peg's.] 

Duffy. 
So  you've  fixed  on  the  dress  already? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I  haven't.  But  if  I've  got  to  be  married,  I 
may  as  well  be  married  decently. 

Duffy. 

Oh,  never  fear,  we'll  make  a  smart  thing  of 
it  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  Ellen,  Easter's  terrible 
late  this  year. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Is  it?  But  what  matter?  I  always  think  it's 
nicer  late. 

Duffy. 

But  a  late  Easter  makes  a  late  Shrove.  I 
looked  at  the  calendar  before  I  slept  last  night. 
Holy  Star,  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  I 
don't  think  there  was  ever  such  a  late  Easter 
in  the  memory  of  man. 

136 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 

What  matter  ? 

Duffy. 

Christmas,  I'd  have  said  if  I'd  known;  and 
1  think  Christmas  it  must  be,  Ellen. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

What?  Marry  you  before  Christmas?  I'll 
do  no  such  thing. 

Duffy. 
I  can't  wait.     You  must. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
I  tell  you,  you  must  wait. 

Duffy. 

Peg  will  make  you  a  dress  in  a  week  .  .  . 
If  you  won't,  I'll  have  to  tell  George  about  the 
bargain  you  made. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  after  you 
promising. 

Duffy. 

A  man  in  love,  you  know   .   .   . 

[Here's  George  and  the  mother.] 
137 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Mr.  Duffy,  did  you  see  Denis? 

Duffy. 

T  didn't.  He  wasn't  over  at  my  place. 
Delia's  in  bed,  sick. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

The  creature!  ...  I  hope,  Mr.  Duffy, 
you've  come  up  to  tell  us  you've  changed  your 
mind  about  the  breach  of  promise?  I'm  sure 
you  couldn't  wish  to  be  hard  on  us,  old  friends 
as  we  are. 

George. 
To  be  sure,  Mr.  Duffy  will  be  reasonable. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You're  all  talking  as  if  the  man  was  some- 
thing terrible. 

Duffy. 

Well,  I've  been  thinking  things  over  .  .  . 
I've  a  strong  case  to  go  on,  there's  no  one  can 
say  I  haven't.  I've  justice  on  my  side,  my  good 
name  to  keep  up,  the  honour  of  my  poor 
motherless  girl,  and — and  all  that.  But,  after 
all,  quarrelling  among  neighbours  is  a  bad 
thing.     Your  poor  father,  George,  was  a  good 

138 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

friend  of  mine,  and  for  his  sake,  and  because 
it's  Delia's  wish,  and  because  I'm  a  peaceable 
Christian  man,  I'm  going  to  withdraw  the  case. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
The  blessing  of  God  on  you  for  that  word ! 

George. 
Thank  you,  John. 

Duffy. 

Mind  you,  it's  a  great  loss  to  me.  I'm  letting 
a  deal  of  money  go  from  me,  and  I  suppose 
there'll  be  people  who'll  say  behind  my  back — 
aye,  and  up  to  my  puss,  maybe — that  the 
Geoghegans  bested  the  Duffys.  But  I  don't 
care.  I'll  bear  all  that  for  the  sake  of  the  good- 
will I  have  to  the  family. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
You  wont  be  without  your  reward. 

George. 

Shake  hands,  John.  You've  spoken  like  a 
man. 

Mrs.  Gkog. 

If  ever  I  wronged  you  in  my  thoughts,  Mr. 
Duffy,  may  God  forgive  mc  and  reward  you 

as  you  deserve. 

139 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

I'm  looking  for  nothing  ma'am.  I'm  glad 
I  was  able  to  do  this  for  you.  And  now  I 
must  be  going  back  to  the  Post  Office.  The 
Inspector  might  be  here  this  morning. 

George. 

Wouldn't  you  have  something  before  you 
go? 

Duffy. 

No,  thank  you,  George.  Seldom  I  touch 
anything 


ig- 


George. 
Ah,  a  small  drop  .  .  .     Come,  John? 

Duffy. 
Well,  just  a  mouthful. 

George. 
A  drop  for  you,  Aunt? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
No,  thank  you,  George. 

George. 

You're    like    myself;    you    touch    nothing. 
You'll  have  some,  mother? 

140 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

A  small  drop — for  Mr.  Duffy's  sake.   Here's 
long  life  to  you,  Mr.  Duffy. 

Duffy. 

Well,  here's  luck  to  .  .  . 

[It  li'ould  make  you  thirsty  to  watch 
them,     li'ould  zvc  Jiave  time  to  slip  out 

for   a IVhisht!      Here's    Denis    and 

Delia.] 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Denis !     Where  were  you  ?     I  thought  you 
were  gone  from  us. 

Denis. 

Not  at  all.     You  don't  get  rid  of  me  fjuite 
as  easily  as  that.     Good-morning.  Mr.  Duffy. 

Duffy. 
Morning. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Sit  down,   Delia.     Would  you  take  a  glass 
of  wine? 

Delia. 

No.  thank  you,  Mrs.  CJeoghcgan. 

141 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

You  might  as  well.  Drink  success  to  me  in 
Canada,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Delia. 
Oh,  I'll  do  that. 

[They're  all  trying  to  make  up  to  her.] 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  fret  over  this,  alanna.  It  will  all  come 
right  in  the  end,  I'm  sure.  Maybe  in  a  year 
or  two  Denis  will  be  able  to  come  back  and 
marry  you. 


• 

Duffy. 

I  thought 

you 

were  sick. 

Delia. 

I'm 

better, 

Duffy. 

You 

look 

it. 

Delia. 

You 

seem 

sorry. 

Duffy. 

You'd  better  come  along  home  now.     The 
Inspector's  likely  to  come  this  morning,  and  'tis 

142 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

you  know  about  them  postal  orders  that  went 
astray  on  us. 

Delia. 
I'll  come  in  a  minute. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

She  w^ants  to  see  a  little  of  Denis  before  he 
goes,  small  blame  to  her. 

Duffy. 

Ay,  he'll  have  other  things  to  do  in  future 
besides  love-making. 

Delia. 

Indeed,  yes  I  suppose.  Denis,  our  love- 
making  has  come  to  an  end  ? 

Duffy. 

That's  a  sensible  girl.  I  thought  maybe 
you'd  be  for  not  giving  him  up. 

George. 

I'm  sorry,  Delia,  wc  had  to  come  between 
the  two  of  you,  but  there  was  nothing  else  for 
it. 

Delia. 

I'm    sure    you    only    did    what    was    right, 

George. 

14.3 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOV 

Denis. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  haven't  given  Delia 
up. 

Duffy. 

But  you  must. 

George. 
You  can't  get  married,  you  know. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
You're  off  to  Canada  to-morrow. 

Denis. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know  all  that.  George,  I've  been 
thinking  things  over.  What  you  said  last  night 
was  true.  I've  been  a  bad  brother  to  you,  it's 
right  for  you  to  turn  me  out.  The  only  thing 
that  makes  me  unhappy  is  the  case  that  Mr. 
Duffy  threatens  against  us. 

George. 
That  needn't  bother  you. 

Denis. 

It  does.  It's  likely  to  draw  a  lot  of  money 
out  of  you. 

George. 

Hush!     Listen  here  .  .  . 

144 


THE  JJ'HITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

All  my  life  through  I've  sacrificed  myself  to 
you;  I've  done  all  you  wished  me  to;  I'll  go 
through  with  it  to  the  end.  Forgive  me  for 
what  I  said  last  night.  I've  seen  I  was  wrong. 
I  wrote  another  letter  to  Delia  last  night;  I 
saw  her  early  this  morning,  and  we  talked  the 
matter  over.  Don't  let  the  weight  of  the 
breach  of  promise  be  on  your  mind  a  minute 
longer.    Mr.  Duffy  will  never  bring  it. 

Duffy. 

How  do  you  know  I  won't,  young  man? 

Denis. 

Because,  Mr.  Duffy,  Delia  and  T  were 
married  half  an  h<nir  ago. 

[Well,  glory  be  to  God!] 

Duffy, 
Ye  .   .   .    ?     It's  a  lie. 

Dems. 
I  beg  your  pardfjii ;   it's  true. 

DlFFV. 

You  couldn't  be  married  so  smart. 
"  145 


THE  UlilTEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

Father  jMurphy  had  heard  the  story  of  my 
going  to  Canada,  and  he  was  quite  ready  to 
marry  me.  I'm  so  glad,  George,  I've  done 
what  yon  wished  me  to  do  .  .  .  Excuse  me 
for  a  few  minutes. 

[He's  gone  out.     Where s  he  gone  tof] 

Duffy. 
How  dare  you — how  dare  you ! 

[He's  in  a  temper.     No  wonder.] 

Delia. 
Father ! 

Duffy. 

Ruining  me — ruining  me,  that's  what  you'd 
Hke  to  be  doing.  Hadn't  I  my  fortune  made? 
Wasn't  I  settled  for  life?  Look  at  here!  A 
letter  from  George  giving  me  two  hundred 
pounds  provided  I  don't  go  on  with  the  case. 


Mrs.  Geog. 


George ! 


Aunt  Ellen 
George,  how  could  you ! 

George. 

I  didn't.  I  didn't! 

146 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

Look  at  here  again — twenty  pounds  in  notes 
from  Mrs.  Geoghegan  to  let  the  case  drop,  to 
put  nothing  in  the  way  of  the  two  of  you. 

George. 

That's  the  twenty  pounds  I  missed  this 
morning.     Give  them  here;  they're  mine. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Ann,  I'm  surprised  at  you! 

Duffy. 

And  look  at  this.  A  hundred  pounds  from 
.A.unt  Ellen  and  a  promise  t(^  marry  me  before 
Shrove.  And  now  I  suppose  it's  no  better  than 
waste  paper. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I'Lllen,  I'm  amazed  at  you,  thinking  of  gcttipg 
married  at  your  age ! 

George. 

Aunt  Ellen,  after  what  ycju  .>aid ! 

Df.i.i.v. 

Quiet  yourself,   father. 

147 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

'Tis  easy  to  say,  "Quiet  yourself!"  I  never 
thought  you'd  turn  on  me  like  that,  Delia — the 
only  child  I  ever  had ! 

Delia. 

Sure,  it's  pleasing  you  I  thought  we'd  be. 
Last  night  you  were  fit  to  be  tied  at  the  notion 
of  my  not  getting  married. 

Duffy, 

I  thought  I  had  spirit  enough  to  throw  you 
over.  But  the  Geoghegans  are  a  mean-spirited 
lot;  they  haven't  even  the  courage  to  jilt  a 
girl. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Well,  thank  God,  I'm  free  of  my  promise 
and  have  courage  enough  to  jilt  you,  Mr. 
Duffy. 

[There's  a  stab!] 

Duffy. 

Do  you  hear  what  she  says,  Delia?  That's 
your  doing  .  .  .  I've  your  hundred  pounds, 
anyway,  and  I'll  not  give  it  up,  not  if  you 
bring  me  into  a  court  of  law.  And  I've  your 
twenty  pounds  in  notes,  ma'am;  I'll  not  part 
with  them. 

148 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
They're  not  hers;  they're  mine. 

Duffy. 
Faith,  they're  mine  now. 

George. 

For  Baby  they  were  meant.  Do  you  know, 
mother,  I  could  have  you  put  in  jail  for  a  thief? 

Mrs.  Geog. 

And  what  about  the  two  hundred  pounds  you 
squandered  unknown  to  any  of  us? 

George. 

And  you,  Aunt  Ellen,  after  all  you  said  about 
puttinf^  a  bold  face  on  it,  no  surrender,  and 
the  like  .   .   . 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Yes,  indeed,  you  were  very  brazen,  engaging 
yourself  to  be  married  like  that! 

George. 

Lo(;k  here,  Mr.  Duffy,  give  me  back  that 
letter  I  wrote  to  you. 

Duffy. 

I  will  not. 

149 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Give  me  back  my  cheque. 

Mrs.  Geog. 
rd  be  thankful  for  that  twenty  pounds. 

Duffy. 

There's  been  trickery  and  underhand  deahng 
here.  I'm  not  inclined  to  part  with  these  in  a 
hurry. 

George. 

Trickery?  Underhand  dealing?  You're  a 
nice  one  to  talk  of  trickery  when  you  had  us 
all  tricked  up  to  the  eyes  last  night,  and  making 
me  promise  not  to  say  a  word  of  it  to  anyone ! 
And  I  suppose  you  had  Aunt  Ellen  bound  the 
same  way.  And  mother  robbing  me,  and  Aunt 
Ellen  betraying  me  behind  my  back —  Is  it 
thieves  and  traitors  I'm  dealing  with? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
And  what  about  yourself,  George? 

Delia. 

Look  here,  all  of  you,  what's  the  use  going 
on  like  this,  scolding  and  attacking  each  other? 
Too  smart  you've  all  been  trying  to  be,  and 
Denis  and  I  have  shown  you  up.  Can't  you 
make  peace  now?    Can't  you  .  .  . 

150 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  girl !  Enough 
trouble  you've  made  already.  One  certain 
thing  is — after  this  morning's  work  I'm  done 
with  you — done  with  you.  You  can  leave  the 
house  to-day;  not  a  shilling  will  you  ever  get 
from  me. 

George. 

And  I  say  the  same  about  Denis.  We're 
quit  of  him  now  for  ever.  I  tell  you  it's  very 
soon,  Delia,  you'll  repent  of  the  deceitful  way 
you  acted  to-day. 

Delia. 

You  can  spare  your  words,  George,  and  you. 
too,  father.  Denis  and  I  aren't  asking  help 
from  any  of  you.  We  can  get  on  very  well 
without  you.  Denis  has  got  work ;  he  can  sup- 
port his  wife,  and  no  thanks  to  any  of  you. 

Duffy. 

Is  he  after  getting  an  ajjpointincnt  ? 

Mrs.  Gkog. 

I  knew  something  good  would  turn  iip  for 
him. 

George. 

What  is  it.  Delia? 

LSI 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Delia. 

Here  he  is  himself;  he'll  tell  you. 

[In  the  name  of  goodness  will  you  look 
at  him!  'Tis  oz-'cralls  he  has  on  him  and 
his  trousers  tied  with  string  and  a  muffler 
round  his  neck  and  an  old  greasy  cap. 
What  at  all  can  have  happened f] 

Mrs.  Geog. 
For  goodness  sake !     Denis  1 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Where  in  God's  name  did  you  get  the 
clothes? 

Denis. 
Larry  Hogan  lent  me  them. 

Delia. 

I've  been  telling  them,  Denis,  that  you've  got 
work.     Tell  them  what  it  is. 

Denis. 

I  haven't  much  time.  I  want  a  bite  of  some- 
thing before  I  go.  (He's  looking  at  his  wrist 
watch.)  I'm  due  in  ten  minutes.  By  the  way, 
you  might  keep  this  watch,  Delia;  it's  hardly 
suitable  to  my  employment. 

[He  gives  it  to  her.] 
152 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 
Where  are  you  going? 

Denis. 

Oh,  not  far;  don't  fret,  George;  not  as  far 
as  Canada ;  not  farther,  in  fact,  than  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  shop  door. 

George. 
What  do  you  mean? 

Denis. 

Well,  as  we  came  up  the  street  from  the 
chapel  after  being  married  one  of  the  men 
working  on  the  road  where  the  steam-roller  is 
was  taken  ill.  I  saw  he  was  pretty  bad  and 
ordered  him  off  to  hospital.  The  foreman  was 
cursing  at  being  left  short-handed;  I  offered 
myself  in  the  sick  man's  place.  I'm  to  go  down 
there  after  dinner  hour  at  one  o'clock  .  .  . 

[What  the .'J 

Delia  is  going  to  see  if  we  can  get  two  rooms 
in  one  of  Nolan's  cottages.  I'll  send  up  for  my 
clothes  this  evening.  You'll  be  glad  to  see  me 
starting  to  work  at  last,  George. 

George. 

You're — you're  mad. 

153 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOV 

Duffy. 
You'll  be  working  on  the  street? 

Denis. 

Yes,  on  the  street.  I  hope  in  a  day  or  two 
we'll  have  worked  up  as  far  as  the  Post  Office, 
Mr.  Duffy. 

Duffy. 
Oh,  my  God  1 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Denis,  Denis,  you  mustn't  do  it!  George, 
speak  to  him,  speak  to  him! 

George. 

Denis,  boy,  don't  do  it.  Hard  as  we  were 
on  you,  we  wouldn't  like  to  drive  you  to  that. 

Denis. 

My  dear  old  chap,  don't  worry  about  me. 
I  assure  you,  I  don't  mind.  Ballycolman  or 
Canada,  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  In  fact,  I  pre- 
fer Ballycolman.    I  like  being  amongst  friends. 

George. 

Friends !  Think  what  everyone  will  say  of 
you,  and  what  sort  of  a  name  will  they  put  on 
us  to  say  we  drove  you  out  on  the  road ! 

154 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Denis. 

Oh,  let  them  say  what  they  Hke.  Mother, 
give  me  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  drink  of  milk.  I 
must  be  off,  or  I'll  lose  my  job.  And  you  might 
put  some  tea  in  a  can. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I'll  not.  You  to  be  working,  Denis!  It's 
a  disgrace  we'd  never  get  over. 

Duffy. 
Delia,  speak  to  him;  make  him  hear  reason. 

Delia. 

Why  should  I ?  You  told  me  straight  a 
minute  ago  we  needn't  look  to  you  for  help. 
We've  got  to  live.  Do  you  think  Nolan's  have 
a  room. 

Duffy. 

Delia,  Delia,  do  you  want  to  break  my  heart  ? 
A  Duffy  to  be  in  one  of  Nolan's  little  houses! 
Look  at  here — let  the  two  of  you  come  and 
live  with  me. 

[lie's  almost  cryiug.] 


George. 

Come  and  live  here. 

155 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Come  and  live  out  at  my  place. 

Denis. 

No,  thanks.  I  want  to  be  independent.  I 
want  to  be  working. 

George. 
We'd  get  you  something  decent  to  do. 

Duffy. 

A  job  will  turn  up  for  you.  Amn't  I  Chair- 
man of  the  District  Council?  I'm  sure  you 
know  enough  doctoring  to  be  a  tuberculosis 
officer  .  .  .  or  .  .  . 

Denis. 
No,  I  don't. 

George. 

Think  of  something,  Aunt  Ellen.  You  were 
always  a  woman  for  schemes. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Denis,   I   always    favoured  you;   you   were 

always    my    pet.      Come    out    to    Kilmurray; 

manage  the  shop  there.    It's  a  hundred  and  fifty 

a  year  in  your  pocket,  and  I'll  leave  you  the 

farm  when  I  die. 

156 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
Do,  Denis ! 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Do,  like  a  good  boy. 

George. 
For  the  mother's  sake. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Don't  be  pussy  with  us,  Denis. 

[Look  at  hiui  st)iili}ig  and  shaking  his 
head.] 

Duffy. 

Look  at  here:  I'll  give  you  this  if  you  will. 
There's  twenty  pounds. 

Denis. 
Keep  it,  Mr.  Duffy. 

DriFY. 

Here's   your   aunt's   checjue    for    £100 — 'tis 
endorsed  and  all. 

Alnt  Ellen. 

Take  it,  Denis,  take  it. 

157 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 
George,  will  you  give  him  that  £200? 

George. 
I  will.     Anything  to  save  us  from  this. 

Denis, 
I  don't  want  it. 

Duffy. 

Then  what  in  the  earthly  world  will  tempt 
you? 

Denis. 

I  only  want  to  be  able  to  do  what  I  like  with 
my  own  life — to  be  free. 

Duffy. 

Free?  .  .  .  Bedad,  isn't  he  like  old  Ireland 
asking  for  freedom,  and  we're  like  the  fools 
of  Englishmen  offering  him  every  bloody  thing 
except  the  one  thing?  .  .  .  Do  Denis,  do  like 
a  darling  boy,  go  out  to  Kilmurray  and  manage 
the  shop. 

Denis. 

I  don't  know  that  much  about  shop-keeping. 

158 


THE  JVHITEHEADED  BOY 

George. 

Yerra,  that's  the  best  reason  you  could  have 
for  going.  Sure,  'tisn't  a  real  shop,  only  one 
of  them  co-operatives.  The  sooner  it  bursts 
the  better. 

Denis. 

You'd  like  to  force  me  to  do  this  just  the 
way  you  forced  me  to  do  everything  else — to  go 
to  Dublin,  to  go  to  Canada,  to  give  up  Delia. 
Will  I  never  be  free  from  you?  ...  If  I  go 
— but  mind  you,  I  don't  say  I  will — Delia  will 
have  to  look  after  the  shop.     I  won't. 

Duffy. 
Now,  Delia,  be  a  good  girl ;  say  you  will. 

Delia. 

Denis,  we're  beaten;  we'll  have  to  go,  we'll 
have  to  give  in  to  them.  lUit  don't  fret  your- 
self; I'll  look  after  the  shop;  you'll  never  be 
asked  to  do  a  hand's  turn  in  it. 

George. 
God  bless  you,  Delia. 

Dki.i.\. 

Listen  here,  fk-orge.  Dfjti't  flatter  yourself 
that  shop's  going  to  fail.     It's  not.     It's  going 

159 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

to  best  you  all — you  can  make  up  your  mind 
to  that. 

George. 

Begob,  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  it  would,  with 
you  at  the  head  of  it. 

Duffy. 


Isn't  she  a  Duffy 


? 


Delia. 


There's  not  one  of  you  here  have  ever  under- 
stood Denis.  He's  been  straitened  and  denied 
all  his  life  through,  but  I'm  going  to  give  him 
what  he  wants  now. 

Denis 
Do  you  think  Kilmurray  is  what  I  want? 

Delia. 

An  easy  life,  no  responsibility,  money  in  your 
pocket,  something  to  grumble  at —  What 
more  do  you  want? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Maybe  we'll  get  you  something  better  later 
on,  Denis.  And  anyway  you'll  have  the  farm 
when  I  die. 

160 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Duffy. 

Ellen  Geoghegan,  what  sort  is  the  farm 
likely  to  be  the  day  you  die,  and  you  treating  it 
the  way  you  do  ?  Listen  here :  isn't  it  your 
sacred  and  solemn  duty  to  those  two  helpless 
young  creatures  to  take  care  you  leave  it  to 
them  in  good  condition? 

[That's  right.] 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Maybe  so. 

Duffy. 

To  do  that  you've  got  to  marry  me. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

I'm  free  of  my  promise;  I'd  rather  keep 
free. 

Duffy. 

You  daren't.  Not  with  the  responsibility 
that's  on  you  now.  Suppose  you  squandered 
the  farm  ? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

You  frighten  me !  I  suppose,  for  Denis's 
sake,  I'll  have  to  have  you  so. 

Duffy. 

That's  the  woman !     And  maybe  in  the  end 
of  all  you  won't  get  the  farm,  Denis,  my  boy. 
»'  161 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Aunt  Ellen. 
What  are  you  saying? 

Duffy. 

What's  to  hinder  us  having  a  son  of  our 
own? 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Mr.  Duffy,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  I  didn't 
think  you  could  be  so  coarse. 

[  .    .    .    Yes,  she  have  a  very  delicate 
mind.] 

Duffy. 

I'm  sorry,  Ellen;  I'm  sorry.  Still  you  never 
know  what  mightn't  happen. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Ellen,  if  that  day  ever  comes  to  you, — and 
I  pray  that  it  will, — take  my  advice,  go  up  to 
Dublin  and  see  Sir  Denis.  He's  an  old  man, 
but  he's  hearty  yet,  I'm  told,  and  .  .  . 

Duffy. 

No,  no,  ma'am.  One  whiteheaded  boy  is  as 
much  as  this  family  can  support.  We're  not 
going  to  rear  another. 

162 


THE  VVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Well,  thank  God,  everything's  well  settled. 
I'm  dying  to  tell  the  others;  they'll  be  delighted. 

George. 
Begob,  I  clean  forgot  them! 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Peter  will  have  to  stay  on  here. 

George. 
Jane  can't  get  married. 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Baby  can't  go  to  Dublin. 

George. 
How  is  it  we  all  forgot  them? 

Aunt  Ellen. 
Thinking  all  the  time  of  Denis  wc  were. 

George. 

What  in  hell  are  wc  to  do?  .   .  .  There's 

a  noise  in  the  street  .   .   .      It's  them  coming. 

.   .   .     What  arc  we  to  say  to  them?  They'll 
have  my  life. 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Quiet  yourself,  George.  They'll  be  all  de- 
lighted when  they  hear  the  way  Denis  is  settled 
for  life.     I'll  talk  to  them.     Leave  it  to  me. 

George. 

Faith,  I'll  do  that  with  a  heart  and  a  half. 
I'll  see  you  later,  John. 

{He's  glad  to  go.'\ 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Don't  take  it  hardly  Denis.  There  are  worse 
things  than  a  shop  and  a  farm  and  £320  in  your 
hand,  and  when  all's  said  and  done  it's  better 
than  working  on  the  roads. 

Denis. 

I'm  not  going  to  grumble,  mother,  where's 
the  use?  I've  always  had  to  do  what  you  all 
made  me  do,  and  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  go 
on  with  it.     I  can't  fight  you  all  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Geog. 

That's  my  brave  darling  boy.  ( There's  kiss- 
ing!) Oh.  Delia,  take  care  of  him;  he's  not 
strong  at  all. 

Delia. 
I'll  look  after  him.     Give  me  the  money, 
Denis,  I'm  going  to  put  it  in  the  bank.    George 

164 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

must  make  me  out  a  promissory  note.  While 
I'm  at  the  bank,  Denis,  change  your  clothes. 
This  afternoon  we'll  drive  out  to  Kilmurray. 
I  want  to  look  at  the  shop. 

[That's  the  girl  zi'ill  manage  Jii)}i. 
George  is  sticking  his  head  in  the  door.] 

George. 
They're  coming! 

Mrs.  Geog. 

I'm  ready  for  them. 

[Here's  Kate,  Jane,  Baby.  Donough 
and  Peter,  all  in  together  in  great  e.rcite- 
ment;  they  all  talking  together.] 

All. 

What's  this  we're  after  hearing — that  Denis 
and  Delia  have  got  married? 

liAIJV. 

Is  this  a  fact? 

Mr<s.  Geog. 

It's  quite  true,  thanks  Ix-  to  God.  Denis  is 
married,  he's  going  out  tf)  Kilmurray  to  tn.m- 
age  the  shop,  we're  after  giving  him  £300  and 
more. 

165 


THE  IVHITEHEADED  BOY 

All. 
What?    What's  that  you  say? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
I  knew  you'd  all  be  delighted. 


All. 


Delighted ! 


Baby. 
I  suppose  this  means  I  can't  go  to  Dublin? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Not  at  all,  you'll  go — some  day — never  fear. 

Baby. 
Some  day! 

Jane. 
Does  this  mean  I  can't  marry  Donough  ? 

Mrs.  Geog. 
Not  at  all.     You'll  marry  him — some  day. 

Peter. 

And  what  about  me? 

166 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

Mrs.  Geog. 
You'll  be  all  right — some  day. 

All. 
Well,  I  think  it's  a  shame. 

Mrs.  Geog. 

Shame  ?  Think  shame  to  yourselves !  What 
sort  of  unnatural  children  have  I  got  at  all? 
Would  you  grudge  your  brother  the  one  little 
bit  of  luck  he's  had  in  all  his  life?  Look  at 
him  sitting  there  with  the  girl  he  loves  and  he 
after  marrying  her  and  not  one  of  you  would 
as  much  as  wish  him  joy. 

Jane. 

I'm  sure.  Denis,  I  have  nothing  against  you. 
I  hope  you'll  be  happy  only 

B.\BY. 

May  you  be  happy — s  o  ni  c  d  a  y  ! 

Peter. 
Good  luck  to  you. 

Aunt  Ellen. 

Girls,  look  here.     I've  a  plan  in  my  mind  for 

you  all.     After  I'm  married 

167 


THE  WHITEHEADED  BOY 

All. 
After  you're  what? 

[They  think  she's  mad.] 

Duffy. 
After  we're  married. 

Baby. 

That's  the  boldest  plan  she  ever  made.  After 
you're  married?  Wisha,  God  help  you,  John 
Duffy. 

[And  she's  right.] 

Curtain. 


168 


The  IVhitehcadcd  Boy  was  first  produced  at 
the  Abbey  Theatre,  Dubhn,  on  December  13th, 
1916,  with  the  following  cast: — 


Mrs.  Geoghegan 

Eileen  O'Doherty 

George 

Breffni  O'Rourke 

Peter 

Arthur  Shields 

Kate 

Dorothy  Lynd 

Baby 

Maureen  Delany 

Jane 

May  Craig 

Denis 

Fred  O'Donovan 

Donough  Brosnan 

Peter  Nolan 

John  Duffy 

Chas.  C.  O'Reilly 

Deha 

Irene  Kelly 

Aunt  Kllen 

Mairc  O'Neill 

Hannah 

Sheila  O'Sullivan 

The  play  was  produced  by  J.  Augustus  Kcogh. 


169 


New  Comedies 

By 
LADY  GREGORY 

The    Bogie    Men — The    Full    Moon — Coats 
Darner's  Gold— McDonough's  Wife 

8°.     With  Portrait  in  Photogravure 

The  plays  have  been  acted  with  great  success 
by  the  Abbey  Company,  and  have  been  highly 
extolled  by  appreciative  audiences  and  an  en- 
thusiastic press.  They  are  distinguished  by  a 
humor  of  unchallenged  originality. 

One  of  the  plays  in  the  collection,  "Coats," 
depends  for  its  plot  upon  the  rivalry  of  two 
editors,  each  of  whom  has  written  an  obituary 
notice  of  the  other.  The  dialogue  is  full  of 
crisp  humor.  "  McDonough's  Wife,"  another 
drama  that  appears  in  the  volume,  is  based  on  a 
legend,  and  explains  how  a  whole  town  rendered 
honor  against  its  will.  "  The  Bogie  Men  "  has  as 
its  underlying  situation  an  amusing  misunder- 
standing of  two  chimney-sweeps.  The  wit  and 
absurdity  of  the  dialogue  are  in  Lady  Gregory's 
best  vein.  "  Damer's  Gold  "  contains  the  story 
of  a  miser  beset  by  his  gold-hungry  relations. 
Their  hopes  and  plans  are  upset  by  one  they  had 
believed  to  be  of  the  simple  of  the  world,  but 
who  confounds  the  Wisdom  of  the  Wise.  "  The 
Full  Moon"  presents  a  Httle  comedy  enacted  on 
an  Irish  railway  station.  It  is  characterized  by 
humor  of  an  original  and  delightful  character 
and  repartee  that  is  distinctly  clever. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


Irish  Folk-History  Plays 

By 
LADY  GREGORY 

First  Series.     The  Tragedies 
CRANIA  KINCORA  DERVORGILLA 

Second  Series.     The   Tragic   Comedies 

THE  CANAVANS  THE  WHITE  COCKADE 

THE  DELIVERER 

2  vols. 


Lady  Gregory  has  preferred  going  for  her  material  to  the  tra- 
ditional folk-history  rather  than  to  the  authorized  printed  versions, 
and  she  has  been  able,  in  so  doing,  to  make  her  plays  more  living. 
One  of  these,  Kincora,  telling  of  Brian  Boru,  who  reigned  in  the 
year  looo,  evoked  such  keen  local  interest  that  an  old  farmer 
travelled  from  the  neighborhood  of  Kincora  to  see  it  acted  in 
Dublin. 

The  story  of  Crania,  on  which  Lady  Gregory  has  founded  one 
of  these  plays,  was  taken  entirely  from  tradition.  Grania  was  a 
beautiful  young  woman  and  was  to  have  been  married  to  Finn,  the 
great  leader  of  the  Fenians;  but  before  the  marriage,  she  went 
away  from  the  bridegroom  with  his  handsome  young  kinsman, 
Diarmuid.  After  many  years,  when  Diarmuid  had  died  (and  Finn 
had  a  hand  in  his  death),  she  went  back  to  Finn  and  became  his 
queen. 

Another  of  Lady  Gregory's  plays,  The  Canaoans  dealt  with 
the  stormy  times  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  whose  memory  is  a  horror  in 
Ireland  second  only  to  that  of  Cromwell. 

The  White  Cockade  is  founded  on  a  tradition  of  King  James 
having  escaped  from  Ireland  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne  in  a  wine 
barrel. 

The  choice  of  folk  history  rather  than  written  history  gives  a 
freshness  of  treatment  and  elasticity  of  material  which  made  the 
late  J.  M.  Synge  say  that  "  Lady  Gregory's  method  had  brought 
back  the  possibility  of  writing  historic  plays." 

All  these  plavs,  except  Grania,  which  has  not  yet  been  staged, 
have  been  very  successfully  performed  in  Ireland.  They  are  written 
in  the  dialect  of  Kiltartan,  which  had  already  become  famiiiar  to 
readers  of  Lady  Gregory's  books. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


Seven  Short  Plays 

By 
Lady  Gregory 

Author  of  "  New  Comedies,"  "  Our  Irish  Theatre,"  etc. 


72°. 


The  plays  in  this  volume  are  the  following: 
Spreading  the  News,  Hyacinth  Halvey,  The 
Rising  of  the  Moon,  The  Jackdaw,  The  Work" 
house  Ward,  The  Travelling  Man,  The  Gaol  Gate, 
The  volume  also  contains  music  for  the  songs  in 
the  plays  and  notes  explaining  the  conception  of 
the  plays. 

Among  the  three  great  exponents  of  the 
modem  Celtic  movement  in  Ireland,  Lady 
Gregory  holds  an  unusual  place.  It  is  she  from 
whom  came  the  chief  historical  impulse  which 
resulted  in  the  re-creation  for  the  present 
generation  of  the  elemental  poetry  of  early 
Ireland,  its  wild  disorders,  its  loves  and  hates — 
all  the  passionate  light  and  shadow  of  that  fierce 
and  splendid  race. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Our   Irish   Theatre 

By  Lady  Gregory 

Author  of  "  Irish  Folk-History  Plays,"  "  New  Comedies,"  etc. 
12°.     Illustrated 

The  volume  presents  an  account  not  only 
of  the  great  contemporary  dramatic  move- 
ment of  Ireland,  including  such  names  as 
those  of  Synge,  Yeats,  and  Lady  Gregory 
herself,  but  of  the  stage  history  of  the  Dublin 
Theatre  from  its  erection.  A  section  of  the 
book  that  possesses  a  very  pertinent  interest 
for  American  readers  is  that  which  has  to  do 
with  the  bitter  antagonism  which  the  Irish 
actors  encountered  on  their  first  visit  to  our 
shores,  an  antagonism  which  happily  expended 
itself  and  was  converted  upon  the  second 
visit  of  these  players  into  approval  and  en- 
thusiastic endorsement.  The  book  contains 
a  full  record  of  the  growth  and  development 
of  an  important  dramatic  undertaking,  in 
which  the  writer  has  been  a  directing  force. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


^^    000  591  117 


